The Dip. Marry-ability.
For some reason or another, I have been thinking about marriage these past few days. If you’ve been reading my stuff long enough, you might go ahead and jump into conclusions about this just being a “phase” of some sort. After all, I wrote this almost a year ago.
(And really, is it my fault that the girl I proposed to lied about her job and wasn’t really a flight attendant but a dancer who trades her “services” for canned vegetable outside a clothing store in the middle east? I think not.)
But seriously, marriage is slowly beginning to present itself as a nascent position lately. This, I feel, is largely due to the fact that right now, I have the best girlfriend a guy could ever have. Before my girlfriend and I got together, my original plan was to marry whoever it is I’m dating by the time I turn 31 (preferably someone underage. And with dead parents, or parents who are drug addicts. Or both.)
Lately though, I find myself in a serious bind–or as my recent favorite author Seth Godin would call it: a Dip(or, who knows? Maybe even a cul-de-sac?). This “Dip” that I speak of is the fact that I feel that as if, right now, I have peaked. I am as marry-able as I’m ever going to get.
In fact, forget “peaking” as I think I’ve passed my peak years ago. Right now, my life is on a downward slide that will ultimately end in a mail-to-order bride, annulment, severe alcoholism and drug addiction, murder and fire.
A song for Maffy
I can be a big, negligent a jerk as much as I want, but at the end of the day only one simple truth remains: I am madly inlove with you and I really can’t imagine getting through life without you holding my hand.
Thank you for fighting hard for what we have.
(By the way, this is going to be the first and last time I am going to attempt to sing an Emo Punk song. I don’t know how these kids can make their voice sound as if it comes out of a vagina without seriously hurting themselves.)
The Suckiest Blog Post In The World
Filed under: Anatomy of a Drunk Man, Daily, Faggotry, Failures
Because I’m lazy and today, easily, is the busiest work day I’ve had the whole year (Read: Offline NBA Fantasy Draft! Huzzah!); I have nothing to offer you guys but a portmanteau post made up of one part depression and one part lust.
Depression
Most of the time, I’m really not sure of anything. I am sure of one thing though: I will have a fucking emotional breakdown in about two days’ time. This is inevitable and I’m pretty much resigned to my fate. I don’t know if I told you guys already, but my psychiatrist decided to cut my anti-depressant and Xanax scripts by half.
Now, I find myself struggling with intense bouts of depression and horribly vivid dreams–dreams which are either extremely terrifying or extremely erotic (these I don’t mind at all). All of these might be just a case of Seasonal Affective Disorder something which isn’t new to me, but I decided to call my shrink anyway just to be sure(and maybe coerce her into writing me new Xanax scripts or something).
But because, like God, my shrink hates me, instead of prescribing more pills, she just went ahead and told me to “Go talk to somebody about it” since she says it just might be work-related stress.
Are you fucking kidding me? What’s so stressful about my work? The two hours I spend on managing my fantasy NBA team? The three hours I spend making personal phone calls to my friends? Or maybe it’s the four hours I spend listening to music everyday? God, give anyone a diploma and a lab coat and they act like they know everything.
I still think it’s Seasonal Affective Disorder. I mean, after all, every Christmas eve, I usually sob uncontrollably, pass out, wake up and realize that I wet my pants, then my slutbag cousin Ella would say something like “That was funny last year, now it’s just disgusting.” and I tell her “Well at least I don’t suck Bisaya cocks for weed money” and then she snaps back with something like “Yeah because you’re a fag, and you do it for free! (Because apparently, in my family, the fact that you never brought home a girl for dinner and the fact that you can speak straight English makes you gay)” Then my mom walks in on us having a fistfight and she cries because we ruined Christmas for her and the kitchen smells like urine.
Love is a pair of sneakers
Originally written for The Man Blog
Choosing the person to spend the rest of your life with is like choosing a pair of sneakers. Initially, when you first lay your longing eyes on the pair in the store, something inside you tells you that you have to have them and so, acting on impulse alone, you purchase them without any hesitation. Sure, it takes a while for you to feel comfortable in them but in a span of mere days, you’re walking the streets with a proud, arrogant, and conceited gait only a pair of stylish, comfortable pair of sneakers can afford.Your new sneakers become your best accessory, people compliment you and your sneakers all the time and slowly, you become one with them.
However, time passes and what was once your new sneakers begin to show signs of wear–the laces get frayed at the ends, the soles start to give and the canvas may have a tear or two in them. This doesn’t faze you as you continue to wear them, mostly because of the comfort they provide you and you, however much you deny it, are attached to them. I mean hey, after all, it took you quite some time to break these pair in and you doubt that you still have the patience to break in another pair, which is most likely, never going to be as comfortable as this one anyway. So yes, you vow to continue wearing them until they simply become unusable.
In a lot of ways, love is like a pair of sneakers.
Dress pants, wedding suckage
Last weekend was, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable days of my life. This is primarily because of the usurious heat that has taken hold of Metro Manila lately. I actually think that these have got to be the hottest days I’ve experienced in the city. I do not have any empirical data to back this claim but then again, summer is usually the time when I up my hallucinogen intake so I really don’t remember much of previous summers. (Well there was this time when I was about 9 and I got attacked by pigeons as I was crossing the street; there was also this summer when I was in high school and I thought I had some sort of weird-ass STD as I had boils on my bird but was told by my doctor that it’s actually chicken pox; also that summer 5 years ago when I hung out with my uncle Edgar when he was on a terrible carousal and after a several games of tong-its, I “accidentally” went swimming down the tullahan river.)
So yeah, my memories of summers past are blurry at best. But I know this for certain, it was pretty fucking hot. And I say this because me whining about how fucking hot it is would be a recurring theme in this post.
"The personal blog of Marketing Strategist, Rising Internet Star, Man Blog editor, child pornographer, alcoholic, and cokehead-- Douchebag Jones--Err, Mike Villar!