It tells everyone that you’re done laying down the foundations of your new life on layers upon layers of financially-stable granite. Hell, you just purchased a home for you and your wife–a home that you’d pay mortgage for for years to come–why not purchase a ~PhP 900,000 vehicle that would put you in even more debt to top it all off?

My friends, that is the plan

I am not going to bore you with details of how I couldn’t afford it and how I’m planning to add to the already diverse list of jobs I do to make ends meet–a list that range from Internet Marketing Professional to Work from home telephone doctor/craigslist scammer–to make me afford it. (Mr. Ellingsworth from North Dakota, if you’re reading this, your “girlfriend” “Samantha” is still waiting for you to wire her the money you promised to lend her for her to  be able to get the ball rolling on the silk undergarment business you and her talked about)

I won’t because there’s a far bigger problem I’m faced with: I’m having severe anxiety attacks just thinking about selling my current car, a ’99 Honda Civic LX. The proceeds from the sale of my current car along with some of the money I have saved in the bank will pay for half of the new car I am planning to get.

The thought alone makes me tear up. I mean, who wouldn’t? Selling a car you’ve had for over almost a decade is kind of like taking your dog to the vet to be put to sleep. Sure, if my car was a dog it’d probably look like one of those fucked up fighting dogs with no hair and a missing eye, but it’s still the dog I went on many an adventure with. It’s my dog.

Indeed, my current car and I have been through a lot.

I remember all sorts of fun, messed up shit we went through together. Like that one semester in college when I lost the money I was supposed to pay my tuition fees with to a kid with an amputated left hand in a high-stakes Tekken game; I was in this car when I picked up a Japanese tourist from Ermita and gave him a [Sexual content involving the word "face babies" redacted upon request by the wife] in exchange for PhP 15,000 and a bag of champoy-tasting Japanese confections.

I was in this car when I came home from a night of wild partying and woke up half naked and later on realizing that I somehow thought it was a good idea to take off my shirt, take a dump on it, wrap it and make it “sit” on the passenger seat (I swear to God, I even secured “Warren Worthington the Turd” with a seatbelt). Fun times.

Or that time when cops randomly stopped me at a checkpoint and insisted that I must have drugs on me because, according to them, I look like a Chinese John Regala. They had me sit down on the curb while they searched my car. I got bored so, trying to be funny, I pretended to reach for something in my pocket and proceeded to shoot them with a gun finger. Not only didn’t they find my “joke” funny, I also got pistol whipped on the back of my head. They eventually let me go but not before one of them bought me a Cornetto from a nearby convenience store because I wouldn’t stop crying and whipping out my bird referring to it as “the .22 special I would’ve pulled if I really wanted things to get real”

The car they searched? Yep, it was this car.

So yeah, it’s going to be really hard letting go, but I will take a double dose of cowboy the fuck up and do what I have to do. But not before, as a final farewell, I write this poem on a piece of paper with green Crayola and tape it discreetly somewhere inside my old bud’s glove compartment:

Don’t be sad, I’ll be free from pain,
Never to be ill ever again,
I know you’ll miss me being there,
But all the memories you have to share.

Thankyou for being my best friend,
And all my needs that you did tend,
Try not to be sad, try not to cry,
Now’s the time to say GOODBYE.

..

What does a guy need to do to get a hug around here?

This morning, I woke up in a residential condo unit in the Pasig area next to a woman whom I later identified as Maffy, my best friend/love of my life who I publicly announced my engagement to a couple of months ago–or was it? I honestly don’t know. If you ask me what the date is, I’d say it’s mid October, 2009 because that’s what it feels like and apparently, that’s about the last time I was cognizant of anything.

Between then and now, I have no recollection whatsoever of what happened to me. I have vague, fragmented memories that, when pieced together, does not form a cohesive story, let alone one that makes sense. Let me run these memories by you guys and hopefully, you can help me make sense of them:

Memory fragment 1: I’m married?!

This really doesn’t come much of a surprise to me as I know for a fact that I am engaged before I fell into the entire time warp shit I was in. But, it appears that I’ve now been married for three months. I found this photo while rummaging through iPhoto:

Based on this picture, the following people were in my wedding:

• Peter Juan
• Liz Lanuzo
• Lauren Dado
• TJ Cafuir
• Elymar Apao
• Jayvee Fernandez
• Rey Agapito
• Alvin Jimenez
• Luis Buenaventura
• Anne Gomez
• Noelle De Guzman
• Rico Mossesgeld
• Penny Monasterial
• The guy who played Mr. Peabody in Problem Child

I’m pretty sure I invited Pau to my wedding and even considered making him one of my secondary sponsors but, according to this picture, he didn’t make it. This is probably due to the long-standing family feud between my family and his that stemmed from a disputed hectare of land in Pangasinan. So Pau, I just want to say that it’s cool and, morally, you are obliged to share all the gold you find in that land seeing that I found it remember? During that time you and I were playing hide and seek with my lesbian leprechaun friend named Vangie? Okay?

I’m pretty sure I invited Marc too as I was considering him to be one of my groom’s men. I better find out what happened there. In fact, I better check and see if I even have a job.

So yeah, that’s totally boss and crazy weird at the same time. Boss because it feels like I didn’t have to go through all the stress usually associated with wedd–hold on, I think another memory is popping up…

Memory fragment 2: The 10% rule is bullshit

This is not so much a memory as it is knowledge. For some reason, I now know that when anyone says that 10% of the guests you invite to your wedding are not gonna show up, they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. I remember inviting 150 guests with the 10% rule in mind when the wife and I were doing the final reservation with the caterer and we ended up with 160 people attending the reception.

Don’t get me wrong, this turnout is great and I appreciate all your support, but the question that begs to be answered is: How can we have 110 people attending the actual ceremony and host 160 people in the reception? Where the fuck were the rest of you guys during the wedding ceremony? Come on!

Memory Fragment 3: I can now speak/write russian

Пища, с которой многие дорогие и лучше, чем мастурбация

Memory fragment 4: resourcefulness under duress

Because of the snafu caused by believing the 10% rule, I now know that some people will eat anything regardless of how questionable. So yeah, if the food you ate on my wedding tasted like shredded Chicken Joy topped with copious amounts of Karo Syrup and cigarette ash, that’s probably because it is. I had to have food delivered because some of you don’t know how to RSVP.

Memory fragment 5: Women (especially if they’re your wife) want you to lift the toilet seat when you take a piss but don’t want you to leave it up because, apparently, there are germs on the toilet seat so they can’t touch it but you, being a man and immune to germs, can.

I would expound on this memory if it weren’t too soon (got in a fight with the wife earlier about this one). But hey! The good news is that I’m back! And it looks like even if I blacked out or whatever, it looks like I am living an okay life. For the most part. I don’t see the point in going back in time to reliv–

thirty, flirty and thriving…thirty, flirty and thriving…thirty, flirty and thriving….thirty, flirty and thriving… WORK DAMMIT!

It was quite a transition but, eventually, we were able to adjust and run a tight, clean ship. The fact that I’m a little on the obsessive-compulsive side made sure that my part of the house (my room, my bathroom and some parts of the kitchen) were clean. Really, I can’t sit still until all my shirts are stacked neatly in the dresser or until my bathroom floor is dry after I use it.

However, while my room and bathroom are orderly, I can’t really say they’re clean. You see, I’m really good with maintaining an illusion of order but I really don’t like to go down and dirty. I’m not, for instance, a big fan of cleaning glass. I’m not one to say “You know what, I just finished drinking beer and my glass coffee table is now riddled with circular beer stains because I didn’t use a coaster. You know what, where’s the chamois and the windex? I’m going to go crazy on this bitch!”

I’m also not a big fan of making my bed after I wake up as I see it as a pointless activity considering I’m going to mess it up again in a few hours when I turn in.

This is where Annie, our new maid, comes in and does her shit. For PhP 3,000 a month, she takes care of the dirty business. She makes my bed 5 minutes after I’m out of it. She goes crazy in my bathroom with her little bottle of Zonrox and scrubs the floor until it has this delicate luster to it. She makes sure my table is clean enough to eat rice off of. I’m telling you: this girl means business.

What makes everything so much better is Annie also falls on my side of the obsessive-compulsive scale. Yesterday for instance, I came home to find all the wires connecting the peripherals of the entertainment system in my room together neatly tied and organized. I also found the mess that were my DVD’s organized into neat stacks classified by type (Playstation, XBox, movie and software). And I found my underwear piled neatly in my undergarment drawer–the newest ones on top and the oldest, most worn out ones at the bottom. It’s almost freaky.

All of this awesomeness aside, there are two fundamental problems I see getting in the way of me fully appreciating Annie.

First of these is the fact that I sort of feel sorry for her. Sorry because she is working for one of the country’s–if not Asia’s–biggest douchebags. I mean the fact that I am writing about finally getting a maid speaks volumes about me. It’s sort of like saying “Hah! Everyone, get a load of me! I have an awesome maid! This means I’m successful! My maid comes from a place that is not Metro Manila! A place where people don’t have running water and where women have to hide from armed bandits every night for them not to get raped! I’m fucking awesome!”

The second is I find it awkward that she also does our laundry. Now most of you probably don’t see anything awkward with this but then again, most of you probably use a tissue to wipe the semen off your belly after you masturbate rather than just pulling up your boxers, allowing your man juice to be absorbed by the fabric and basically just waiting for it to dry up and become hardened splotches on your underwear.

I’ve been so used to my mom doing our laundry (most of you probably think this is worse but ask any new mom if they get grossed up cleaning up after their infants shit their diapers. And arguably, semen is less gross than shit. Arguably.) that I’m having trouble coming to terms with the fact that someone’s virgin hands are going to end up touching the splotches on my boxers; Splotches that are the direct result of only the most lecherous of urges. And sometimes, random pictures of girls on Facebook.

I’m not going to get into details because really, who would want to read me explicitly describing a dream where I’m fully naked (no, wait. I wasn’t fully naked. In this dream, I was sort of insecure and had a shirt on. Really reflective of how this entire sex thing is for me in real life now that I think about it.) swimming in an ocean of sour cream and mustard while flogging a three-headed penis? Exactly.

A little background: Ever since I was prescribed anxiolytics to treat my anxiety disorder; and I’m not sure if this is a side effect or something; I’ve been having these really strange and vivid dreams that are either a) Totally non sequitur and/or b) extremely erotic. These dreams happened most frequently at a point where my anxiety was at its worst. My shrink told me that stress could be a major underlying cause of these dreams but anyway, I’m better now as far as the entire anxiety deal would go and the frequency of these dreams have been reduced drastically. At its worst, my brother would wake me up in the middle of the night because he says that I’ve been thrashing wildly in my bed while yelling “Freedom to the marshmallow people!” Not sexy at all.

What I miss the most are the erotic dreams. Those were so strikingly vivid that I would wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to light a cigarette because I’m so convinced that I just had sex with a hot eastern european model.  (It’s interesting to note that these are not wet dreams. In fact, I have never had a wet dream in my life since I discovered the fine art of masturbation as early as I was six. So, you know, I’ve been overworking my testicles so I could shoot sperm at t-shirts, walls, my face (I was able to do this once. It was great), etc. since I was in first grade. What I’m trying to say here is that I’ve never, for the life of me, had enough semen in my body to actually get a wet dream since I always “empty the chamber.”

The most awesome part of these erotic dreams has got to be the fact that, most of the time, they are not about the girlfriend or ex-girlfriends or crushes or even celebrities (which, until now, I thought were requisites for such dreams)–they’re about totally hot women I don’t even know. You can’t have it any better than that! Unless you have REAL sex with REAL eastern european models. Unfortunately for me, I’m engaged and because I want to maintain a healthy monogamous relationship (as long as I can, at least), this isn’t feasible for me.

If I were single, the girl I had a crush on in grade school whom I dreamt of recently would, undoubtedly, be the unwilling recipient of at least a dozen drunken phone calls. But since I’m not, It’s me and and my loyal friends again tonight: My iPod touch, Youporn.com and Myra-E facial moisturizer.

(I just read this post and damn– My Employability/Marketability -10 points. But whutevs. I’m awesome)

While I was sitting outside one of the restaurant’s alfresco tables, having a grand time myself watching the hoi polloi, wondering why anyone would want to hold a wedding reception in a poorly-ventilated, non-airconditioned venue such as the Bahay ng Alumni in the middle of summer, and waiting for my Chix in a Basket and Caesar’s Salad, I caught a glimpse of a mature gentleman taking a table behind ours, a mature gentleman wearing aviator sunglasses.

Being both insecure and judgmental, I turned to my fiancee and said “What kind of doucher wears aviator sunglasses with a floral button down?” When the waiter took his order, I vaguely recognized his voice–a voice that would sound right ordering Manok but would say it in a way that would let the last syllable linger–and turnd to get a better look at him.

The doucher was Eddie Garcia. Oops.

Anyway, as is customary whenever famous people see each other in restaurants, I said hi. And was ignored.

But that’s probably because I told him how I loved his part as Lot Lot de Leon’s father in Magasawa’y di biro. Now that I think about it, that part was played by Eddie Guttierez.

The excessive cigarette-smoking I engaged in throughout the duration of my sickness didn’t help either. Now, I have a bad cough which, every time I try to clear my throat, feels like somebody’s clawing the insides of my throat with a rusty coat hanger.

To give you an idea of how bad it was, the last time I came in for work, which was Friday last week, I can stand for about five minutes before my knees get wobbly and my head throbs like fuck. (After reading an email from one of my direct reports, I abruptly stood up from my chair to talk talk to her. Bad idea. Next thing I knew, I was bracing myself on my chair’s armrest and was slowly helping myself to sit down again letting out a muted groan). I did manage to get home with a full-blown fever which made it virtually possible to cook rice on my forehead.

On Saturday, I tried to force myself to go to work–since really, I’ve always prided myself with my strong work ethic*, and I’ve always seen myself as the corporate Michael Jordan: someone who steps up during crunch time and performs best under situations of extreme duress. I mean, did you hear about that fiasco I was in during last year’s SEMCON? I flu-gamed and held down the shit out of that.

(*Especially when I know that my bosses are and clients read my blog)

Besides, I didn’t want to stay at home swimming in dirty, semen-stained sheets trying, to no avail, to get off stroking my bird to Street Fighter IV videos on YouTube.

However, on Saturday, my flu has gotten so bad to the point that I couldn’t even get out of bed. And my dreams of pulling off a Flu Game was realized through me emailing my team members every 15 minutes with messages which, invariably had subject lines “Please do this ASAP”, “Please do this report and submit this to me EOD…” and “Please don’t tell [Boss's name] that I’m harassing you to do this report…”

So yeah, despite the flu, everything was great and taken care of. Sure, I was sick, but thanks to my brilliant management skills (through begging and coercing my co-workers) my department’s operations went on unhindered.

Also, I have my mom to nurse me back to full health in no time. Or so I thought.

This was when shit hit the fan: Apparently, my mom was also down with a flu. A flu that was worse than mine. This totally threw me off guard. I mean, if I’m sick and she’s sick, who’s supposed to give me a sponge bath? Who’s supposed to prepare my meals? And, most importantly? Who’s supposed to get me into my onesies and read me Hansel and Gretel before I sleep?

Yes, if you must ask, whenever I get sick, no matter how non-deadly it is, I act as though if I’m dying and pretty much turn into an infant.

Now, with my mom out, I had to rely on my dad to nurse me back to health and bear the burden of seeing my tiny bird when he helps me change into my pajamas at night.

Now that I’m considerably better than I was over the weekend, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my dad for being such a pussy.

My dad is a man who didn’t ask for much. I didn’t have to make the high school basketball team nor did I have to learn how to count to 100, let alone,  get exemplary grades in school. All the man wanted was a son who can take care of himself and stand up to a stupid flu and maybe a son who can have intercourse with a woman without taking two hours to get an erection.

So, I’m sorry dad. I’m sorry for not being that man. I’m sorry everyone.

Now, I’m going out and smoke like 5 cigarettes before I go to sleep.

As we continue to celebrate Restroom McNinja Awesomery Month here at mikevillar.com [1][2], I would like to tell you this funny thing that happened to me last weekend. Also, I lied. there’s no such thing as Restroom McNinja Awesomery month. I just couldn’t think of a better intro. Let alone, a good segue from that horrible intro you just read to my main point. Maybe I could jus—

Last Saturday, I went out for drinks with a few friends from the office. Nothing weird or different there, maybe except for the fact that I was feeling a little under the weather and was in pretty bad shape for a self-proclaimed alcohologist who’s had only three bottles of beer at 10pm on a weekend.

The reason why I wasn’t feeling so good, I believe, was because I had one too many bottles of beer with the fiancee the night before and was a little hungover. It didn’t help that when I woke up that morning, I went through my hungover morning ritual that involves a furious, 15 minute masturbation session, leftover adobo, some pan de sal and a 1.5 liter bottle of soda. The sleep I had the night before was spasmodic and uncomfortable.

So yeah, to recap: prior to coming for work that day, I was already hungover, my stomach was fucked up and had close to zero sleep.

On top of that, the bar we went to was pretty thronged, hot and generally uncomfortable. If you know me, you’d know that my body does not take heat very well (Especially during the times I forget to stuff my armpits with table napkins. Man, you should really see those pit stains)

I remember being a little PO’d at that point in the evening. I started to feel nauseous because of the heat and, was sweating lke a Hyberabad man in a sauna that’s cranked up to 11.

When I get this uncomfortable, I usually stay in my little corner where I generally don’t talk to anyone, and drink my face off. But really, I didn’t want to ruin the evening for myself.

So, what I did to cope was go to the restroom periodically to splash my face with water and retouch (what, and you’re so manly?)

Now the bar only had two restrooms–one for men and one for the ladies situated right beside each other so people who are waiting in line to use them, whether they’re male or female are in the same line.

As I entered the male restroom during one of my trips, a middle-aged man went in with me much to the shock of the people who were waiting in line and my muted chagrin.

“Kid, can we like go at the same time? I can’t hold this in anymore?” He said.

“No shit? You’re already in here with me” I thought to myself but ended up saying “Sure! No problem” with the chipperness and pitch akin to that of a prepubescent schoolboy.

So we went. Together. He in the toilet, and I in the urinal.

Now, let’s move on to the lesson I learned through this whole ordeal before I end up saying things I don’t mean shall we?

The lesson is: Urinating back to back with a man twice your age as he talks to you about how the country’s president is a “no good, midget thief” all while grunting, moaning and establishing eye contact with you via a mirror  is a surprisingly pleasant experience every man should experience at least once in his lifetime.

I would also like to impart some things I learned through the whole engagement ordeal particularly the process of getting an engagement ring which, I’m pretty sure everyone who has proposed before could attest to, is the hardest, most frustrating part of the process.

First of all, although my Ilocano roots make me generally predisposed to hating everything that involves spending superfluous amounts of money in the traditional dating process–giving flowers being a great example; I do not have any aversion towards giving an engagement ring. I mean sure miners in Liberia have perennially and regularly died mining the diamonds set in these rings and that’s horrible but dude, are these things beautiful or what?!

I mean, think about it this way: This is probably the last thing you have to get your girl before you are assured of a life of sex and sandwiches on demand. Not to mention a life of coming home late and hitting your Down syndrome-afflicted kid because he wouldn’t shut the fuck up when all you really want is to drink your beer while you watch a basketball game. But, I digress.

Besides, the engagement ring signifies your true love for your girl and it’s something she’s going to show all her snobbish, judgmental friends when they go out and shit. It’s also something she’s supposed to wear for the rest of her life, or in my case at least, for two years before we get annulled because of a rather petty argument about who the best American Idol judge is (duh, Randy Jackson obviously).

Anyway, how do you go about purchasing the ring? Two options presented themselves for me:

1. 1.) I could go ahead and purchase the ring with my girl. We could, unromantically, hit up known jewelry stores, she could pick a ring she likes and, if my budget agrees with her, I could buy it right then and there. After which, I could drop to my knees and propose to her right in the jewelry store.She would then acquiesce and say yes amid a dozen other shoppers rolling their eyes.
2. 2.) I could buy the ring without her. I could ask my lady friends who are already engaged for tips about getting the perfect ring. This process invariably involves outdoing a certain lady friend’s fiance and going to a jewelry store asking the sales person “How much karats does this shit pack again?” And saying “0.8 Karats you say? Well that’s just perfect! the rock Kenneth gave Melissa was just 0.7 Karats, fuck it! I’m taking this shit! [immediately phones Kenneth to gloat]

I picked option 2. Seriously, isn’t it a little lame for a girl to have an idea in regards to what it’s going to look like? Similarly, how anticlimactic is it to the girl for her to be cornered into a Q&A session about what her perfect engagement ring should be everyday for three weeks only to be proposed to later on? And really, how lame is it for a girl to actually be physically present when her engagement ring is bought, let alone be proposed to in a Jewelry store?

Besides, there is no better feeling in the world like you and your girl drudging through your seemingly eternity-old relationship, until the day you guys go out to eat in an expensive restaurant and instead of you asking her if “she has 500 bucks on her” because you “don’t want to break your 1,000″ when in reality you’re just really short, like you normally do; she finds your thick ass kneeling down in front of her holding out one of those black folds restaurants use to bring you your bill asking you to marry her. (Well initially, she may think that you’ve really hit rock bottom and are asking her to pay for the entire dinner. Until she opens the fold and sees an engagement ring inside. WOW!)

Much like how mine went though, her surprise might prove short-lived being that you didn’t take the time to ask her what sort of ring she likes nor did you take the time to ask for tips from any of her friends–or from anyone at all for that matter; her surpirise may soon turn into repugnance seeing that the ring you bought resembles something one can find in a flea market or one handcrafted by a drunk jeweller from Chinatown using a broken rhum bottle, a copper wire and some glue.

What’s more important than the engagement ring though is what you do right after you propose. Make sure that you pepper her with “I love you so much’s” and, in my case, make sure to apologize profusely about the ring and say that you felt like getting it yourself was the best option because you want to come off a little romantic.

Failing to do these will end up with her crying and telling you that you spend way too much time streaming ebony and ivory porn in your computer. If she does, you probably should just walk away and forget the entire engagement thing.

A good wife should never question your decisions on how to spend your time–free or otherwise–especially if it involves a black man stuffing the brains out of a petite, probably underage, blond girl. Seriously.

If I were to write about engagements around 4 years ago, I would’ve probably written it with my friend Kenneth’s engagement in mind.

Kenneth was one of my best friends in college who proposed to his girlfriend about the time we were about to graduate from business school. Although Kenneth was one of my closest friends, we’ve always had this strange, and at some points, frightening competitive friction going on between us. For one, we always tried to outdo one another academically and in “sports” (and of course, by “sports” I meant billiards; a sport I grudgingly lost to Kenneth back in 2002 during a local 9-ball championship. I did, however, exhibit a modicum of class by publicly congratulating him–a moment which reminded me a lot of that time Hulk Hogan lost to The Ultimate Warrior back in Wrestlemania VI).

At that time, I wouldn’t say I was in any hurry to get hitched but the fact that Kenneth, yet again, beat me to something desirable left me with a lot of jealousy and resentment.

Of course, Kenneth bought his then girlfriend an engagement ring. Actually, now that I think about it “engagement ring” was a huge misnomer given that the “ring” Kenneth gave his fiancee was more of a “14 karat gold band set with a really fucking expensive rock that is about the size of a baseball and probably costs the same as it would to feed a small African country for at least 5 years”

Back then, I thought to myself that since Kenneth gave his fiancee a majestic, expensive as hell ring, I needed to outdo him by giving my future fiancee an even more majestic and more expensive ring.

I actually, back then, had a pretty solid plan to procure said ring: I would fly to Pungo Andongo somewhere in Liberia where I shall mine the biggest diamond the world will ever see with my bare hands. I will hire a group of Kongo-speaking locals who would agree to help me only if I provide them with a crate of AA batteries and some old NBA trading cards (They love Detlef Schrempf in Liberia).

Once I get my hands on the gem I came to Liberia for, I will exfiltrate to Lusaka, Zambia with a human-smuggling caravan who have agreed to provide me with safe passage to Lusaka in exchange for allowing them to butcher and eat my Liberian guides. I might also need to give up my pants along with a box of candies I will bring with me to the trip plus a promise to give their leader one hell of a toothy blowjob (because I don’t know, I guess Zambians like it like that?). A fair trade if I may say so myself.

Upon flying back to Manila, I shall immediately find myself exceedingly attractive to the members of the opposite sex, every chick I meet would want to sexually pleasure me and marry me because, as wel all know, women only fall in love with men who possess two things: A giant penis and a huge-ass diamond. The penis, I can’t do anything about but I would have the world’s biggest diamond and that should be enough.

THAT was how I imagined I’d go about the entire engagement ring / engagement deal.

But last week, January 24, 2009, I invited Maffy, who has been my partner for almost two years and prior, was my best friend for almost six, to a quaint, intimate formal dinner in the middle of which, I dropped to my knees, opened a small black box containing a humble ring (with a rock that’s smaller than my bird–we’re talking REALLY small here guys just in case you still don’t have an idea) and asked her to marry me.

She said yes.

Sure, I may not have had the world’s biggest diamond with me. In fact, all I had were a lot of nervousness and anxiety. But guess what? I walked away from the entire thing with a promise from the love of my life that yes, she will spend the rest of her life with me.

And really, nothing could make me happier.

For the purpose of this post, let’s call the girl I have this huge crush on Schmoni Gonschaga . Not her real name, of course.

Step Two : Watch a movie on cable with a character played by the actress that has a striking resemblance to your real life crush about a physical trainer who falls in love with her formerly obese, Fil-Am client turned restaurateur.

Step Three : While in bed, trying to make yourself fall asleep, you repeatedly run the scene in the aforementioned movie where the actress who looks almost exactly like your real life crush kisses the actor who plays the formerly obese restaurateur with a horribly annoying accent.

Five minutes later, you start violently punching the walls and throwing random stuff in your room around and proceed to take a rather uncomfortable dump during which you end up biting your tongue off because you went into spams out of sheer outrage and jealousy.

Step Four : make a pit stop in a convenience store on your way to work where you see a magazine cover with the actress who looks like your real-life crush in it and, almost automatically, you remember the kissing scene from the movie you watched the night before.

Then, proceed to thank the heavens for the fact that there were nubile college students present with you in the convenience store because otherwise, you would’ve wrestled with the security guard for his gun and proceeded to shoot yourself repeatedly in the face.

Step Five : Contemplate visiting your psychiatrist again–whom, almost certainly would charge you more this time around because along with your depression and your anxiety, you managed to let yourself slip into mania.

Step Six : FUCKING SAM MILBY! I SWEAR TO GOD I’ll FUCKING CUT YOUR PENIS OFF WITH A– Fuck it, I need a drink.