This month saw a bunch of celebrities making comebacks of sorts. The Rock has come back to the WWE, and David Pomeranz and Stephen Bishop also made localized, annual Valentine’s day comebacks

(seriously guys, why leave when you can stay and land gigs co-hosting Sunday noontime shows singing Lady GaGa covers with local celebrities and live like kings? We love you guys! Also, you have no idea how many guys have gotten restroom prom beejes thanks to your songs but whatever right)

What many of you don’t know, however, is that crying somewhere in the heart of Pasig, another former, overweight (The proper medical term for which, as I learned from my company’s recent Annual Physical Examination by the way is “Obese Class III”)celebrity has been plotting his return.

The former celebrity I speak of is none other than myself. Mike Villar, Rising Washed-up Internet Star.

“Why return now? lol and where have you been?” You might be asking yourself. And the answer to your question is because I want to and because I can. So you better check yourself before you wreck yourself.

Where I’ve been? Nowhere really. Most of my time between my last post and now was spent chilling in the barren, cold abyss that is called “being married” subsisting mainly on depression sandwiches and an endless supply of human tears on tap.

I kid! What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been happily married for over a year now and, for those of you who aren’t married yet, the most important thing you need to know is that for most people, deciding to, how does Beyonce put it?  ”put a ring on it”, means biting the bullet as far as all the responsibilities of adulthood would go. This means you’ll have less free time and the little free time you have won’t be spent dicking around in the internet but rather accepting additional jobs so you could pay the utilities and afford those fine decorative balusters you want for your house.

That said, there will be plenty of changes in regards to this blog’s content. Long-time readers of this blog would probably get turned off but come on guys, you have to admit that penis jokes could only be stretched so far. (There are still going to be penis jokes. Albeit, more refined penis jokes. Did you honestly think I could stay away from penis jokes? I love penises!)

To illustrate:

Mikey from 2 years ago: Will write about how he got so messed up at a party that he spat on the host’s Shih Tzu after he got into an argument with it about who the hotter Community girl is: Britta or Annie. Obviously, the answer is Annie because she can be the most adorable thing without being sexualized. You don’t intimidate me with your barking. There’s a perfectly good reason why your kind is the one being bought from stores to keep our kind company. Hell, we put leashes on you and shit. Oh yeah? Come at me then! And put some fucking pants on!

Mikey now: Won’t even dare touch alcohol because the last time he did, the wife caught him peeing in the sink and he ended up sleeping in the car parked in a Shell Station somewhere on C-5.

Mikey from 2 years ago: Will write a poignant, humorous piece that throws jabs at the entire local blogging paradigm and how everyone has “sold out”

Mikey now: Doesn’t care. He’d rather spend his free time during work days catching up on videogames (yes, the wife allows me to play videogames during work days. Provided I wear a shirt while I do)

Mikey from 2 years ago: Will write a gonzo-styled post about how he made a bad financial decision and how he plans to deal with it.

Mikey now: has made all the bad financial decisions he can possibly make. In fact, I park the car in a lot a few blocks away from my house because I fear that the repo man will come to take it away at night while I sleep. (Seriously, you’d think that these guys would let up after you give them a promissory note outlining how you’d pay off your arrears and promising them you won’t have your uncle hide the car in ilocos while you “figure things out” like last time)

So here’s where I am right now. I come to you with my hat in my hand begging you for a second chance. Think of me as the ex-girlfriend you broke up with years ago who’s now trying to win you back. Her body might not be as banging as it used to (5 pregnancies and a hormone imbalance does weird shit to your body), and your bros might be constantly telling you how “you had her at her prime”, but can you look me in the eye and tell me that you won’t hook up with that and squeeze a beej or two from her? For old time’s sake? Exactly.

Mikey from 2 years ago: Will write about how tiny his bird is and how he never gets to use it

Mikey now: Will still write about the same. Sadly.

Welcome me back? Babe?

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!

My stress levels, however, have gotten to a point where I strongly detest driving on account of me getting pissed off by other drivers a little too easily, and a lingering fear that the bouts of road rage I have would, someday, end up in homicides. Multiple, violent homicides.

So yeah, earlier this week I was invited to attend a press event over at hotel near where I work. Since the venue was only 3 blocks away from the office and I really want to avoid driving as much as I can, I decided to take a cab to get there.

So I flag down a cab, get in and–before I go on–a disclaimer:

A lot has been said in this blog about people from the provinces but, truth be told, I have nothing but respect for them.

I mean really, how can you not respect people who leave their quaint little home town and cross the seas to find a better life in Manila? These people do seventy-hour weeks in department stores or factories so they can buy Magic Sings so they’d have something to entertain their drunkard friends the next time they come over the small-ass apartment they’re renting.

All this while overachieving people like me get high paying jobs landing on their laps, spend their time magically turning a good chunk of their salary into alcohol and end up blowing almost PhP 5,000 pesos on various sexy girl webcam access sites because they’re stressed and miserable. And horny.

That said, it turns out that the guy who drives the cab I got into is from the province and speaks little Filipino, let alone, English. Now, I usually sit in the front passenger seat of cabs and talk to drivers a lot so, after getting in, I said “The EDSA Shangri-La” and asked him how his day has been so far.

He replied in what sounded like heavily-accented Filipino, most of which I couldn’t make any of. So I thought, no biggie, probably not a good idea to converse with somebody who doesn’t speak much Filipino. It’s all good though, as long as he takes me where I need to go.

The EDSA Shangri-La is around 10 minutes away from the office. Five minutes into the ride, I get a feeling that the guy doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. “You can turn right on the street after San Miguel Avenue” I suggested, he looked at me with a face that couldn’t be more unenthused and nodded. I took it as a “Yes, fat chops, I’m a cab driver, I know where the fuck I’m going so why don’t you just shut the hell up and relax?” So, I leaned back on my seat and did.

As we neared the corner leading to the hotel, I said “That’s the building right there [pointing], you can drop me off where it’s safe” Again, he looked at me and nodded, and again, I leaned back and tried to relax. As we approached Shangri-La, I noticed that he wasn’t slowing down to pull over. Already missing our destination, I said “You can just drop me off right here” even if “right here” was already a hundred meters past where I was supposed to get off.

At this point, I remembered why exactly I sit in the passenger seat whenever I ride cabs–So that I can easily open a can of whoopass on the driver if he tries anything funny like say trying to Kidnap me to hold me for ransom–and really, that was what was running through my head at that point. The guy, after all, was zooming farther from where I intended to get off at 60KPH. I said, more firmly “That was my stop right there, turn the cab around..no, on second thought, I’ll just get off here. Stop the car!”

I forget what I said exactly but I finally got him to pull the cab over at the EDSA side of the far end of SM Megamall–a good block away from where I wanted to get off.

Before getting off, I explained to him, largely through an intricate sign language routine, that I was trying to get off there [pointing to the Shangri-La] and not here [pointing down] but he just looks like he doesn’t get it.

I seriously could’ve gotten further in the conversation with a stray dog and, moreso, with a chimpanzee who, I’ve been told, are slightly more intelligent.

Seriously, what the fuck was that? I respect the fact that Filipino or English probably wasn’t the guy’s first language and he’s really just trying to make a living. But come on, how much Filipino/English do you have to understand and know how to say as a Taxi driver? We’re talking just knowing what left, right, turn around, “there” and “stop” means here.

How would you like it if you came up to me and asked “Mikey, I need the revenue projection report for our Q4 Holiday campaign” and me, staring at you for a good 10 seconds before finally saying “Thank you Mario, but the princess is in another castle.”

Christ.

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.

Let me explain: preparing for a wedding isn’t exactly cheap–to put things into perspective, let’s just say that in the last couple of months, I have spent half of what I earn annually booking some of the suppliers I need for my wedding.

All of this would’ve been fine If I was doing really well for myself. Well I could probably say that I sort of am but then again, let’s not forget that I am also paying for the house I bought early last year.

Add the fact that the actual preparations are taxing both mentally and emotionally into the mix and you’ve got yourself the perfect formula for an obese, manic-depressive train wreck waiting to happen. So stay the fuck clear.

Anyway, to cope with all the financial and emotional stress that are weighing heavily down on me, I’ve stepped up to take in more work and made it a point to drink myself into a coma every chance I get.

This becomes problematic when:

My Workaholism

In my wedding, I will be known to some people as the “sales pitbull” and the “douchebag screaming into his BlackBerry in English” to some. The thing is, with what I do, whenever I see a deal that needs closing, I attack it like a cheetah would attack a gazelle: Going for the lithe hind legs first before dragging the carcass back to my den for midnight snack and some necrophilic action.

My hunger for money nowadays is only dwarfed by my thirst for beer, so really, it’s only natural for me to be talking to Chinese internet moguls via my BlackBerry 24/7. If the guests in the wedding couldn’t understand the importance business and trade has in modern society, then I suggest they kick themselves back to 18th century France so they could listen to Rosseau tell them how awesome communism is and invite them to share their meager broth with him.

My Alcoholism

I cannot say this enough: I love to drink. You can blame my Ilocano genes or my dark past but the fact of the matter is I love alcohol okay? This insatiable thirst coupled an unlimited supply of booze afforded by the mobile bar I signed as one of the vendors for my wedding is a lethal combination. In my wedding, I would start off innocently enough, first swinging back the ceremonial glass of wine my future wife and I would share. Then I’ll knock back a few beers while going table to table for pictres. Then the wheels would come off–Somebody just handed me a Jaegerbomb!

Next thing I’ll remember is me putting my penis in the chocolate fondue. Another blackout. Then I’ll vaguely remember trying to rally everyone into dancing the Macarena on the dance floor. This will be followed by another blackout. Then it happens: The moment of true humiliation: I’m struggling to keep my balance on one foot holding a bottle of tequila before finally falling backwards into our wedding cake.

I wake up the next morning in a forest wearing an Igorot outfit hugging a rice cooker.

(This blog post’s word count so far: 113. See what I did there?)

You see, since around July last year, I have been coping with something that has slowly been eating away at me. If you remember, around that time, I got myself a short-lived Gym membership. What I didn’t tell you was that the training program I followed, instead of giving me delts of steel, biceps of romance and clitoris-conquering pecs; gave me some sort of weird skin disease.

Apparently, after sweating it out with squats, rows, and bench presses, you’re supposed to shower or at least wipe the sweat from your body and change into a clean shirt. But, beecause the concept of “hygiene” totally eluded me then, what I did was not shower, changed into shirts I sweated the fuck on from previous gym sessions (which I kept in a leather backpack I store in the trunk of my car) and even went on a month of gymming using only one pair of socks.

At first, the skin disease manifested itself as a patch of rashes on my right shin. I didn’t think any of it until recently when I noticed that the rashes have spread into my left thigh, my tummy, my chest and my upper arms.

Being the son of a pharmaceutical executive, and having learned the awesomeness of self-medication at a very early age, I prescribed myself some benadryl and took some pills labeled “losartan” which I found in a box stored in our garage and decided to wait and see if the pills I took would take care of the rashes.

They didn’t. Because, apparently, losartan is an angiotensin used to treat high blood pressure. Taking these pills seemed to have pissed off the fungi that’s causing my rashes and, several days ago, it punished me by aggressively spreading down my lower abdomen in an attempt to mount a siege and spread to my penis.

(Anyone else getting an erection reading this?)

This made sleeping very difficult for me. Since most of my body constantly and severely itches, I wake up in the middle of the night either applying colgate/lotion/shaving cream/turpentine into the affected regions of my body or just thrashing around violently scratching myself all over.

(Seriously, I’m surprised no one has asked me to have sex with them at this point)

Today, faced with the imminent threat of my lower abdominal rash spreading to my penis, I decided to seek professional medical help. After living with these rashes for over a year now, I have finally decided to stand up and say “Enough!”

Although, for some odd reason, I feel like I will miss the rashes when they’re gone in a weird medical version of Stockholm, I simply cannot live with just getting three hours of sleep a night without taking more drugs–this time, ones that are in powder form and are illegal. Nobody wins if I do.

My appointment with the Dermatologist is on Saturday. And really, I wouldn’t be surprised if she takes a look at the extent to which my rashes have spread and tells me to wait in the room while she gets something from the pharmacy. Five minutes later, an orderly wielding a shotgun steps into the room and gives me a buckshot to the face without preamble. Because really, seeing my rashes as they are today leads me to believe that it’s so severe that I need to be “put to sleep” and my body cremated ASAP.

For one, I am pretty much free to engage in what people who have actual religions would consider debauchery since I am not concerned with losing morality points nor, much less, eternal damnation.

And, because I consider myself a man who believes only in science, I am also not afraid of anything supernatural (i.e. ghosts, bad spirits). I, however, practice a couple of things that have something to do with some superstitious beliefs on women and how to make them enamored with you (i.e. stealing a girl’s panties and sleeping with it under your pillow until she’s convinced, magically, that she indeed wants to sleep with you. Or until she finds out you’ve stolen one of her underwear that time you took her home and asked her for a glass of water and the court slaps you with a restraining order). But then again, these doesn’t have anything to do with fear but more with desperation.

I guess what I’m saying is that I afraid of very few things. In fact, I think it’s a really short list:

1. Thunder
2. Cockroaches

Actually my fear of thunder is more of fright than anything else so I guess the only thing I’m genuinely afraid of are cockroaches; and really who isn’t? They are nasty and some of them even fly. Whoa.

My fear of cockroaches is so intense that I could be sitting in front of a really hot woman on a date and I see a cockroach crawling (or god forbid flying) towards me–I can tell you that, at that point, all bets are off. I’m fucking getting out of that place, pay for the bill missy and, if you’re interested in comforting me and telling me that everything’s going to be alright (and maybe give me a blowjob in the process), call me. I’ll be at home hunkered in my bed under a blanket.

Anyway, last Friday, I was driving to work in my dad’s car listening to Ted Failon on AM radio with the driver side window opened halfway because, of course, I was smoking. I was on a stretch of road called Mindanao avenue, which made me somewhere around 45 minutes away from where I work in the Pasig area, when I felt something sort of tickle me on the back of my neck. I assumed it to be just the label of my shirt or something so I reached back and tried to put it back in place.

As I touched what I thought to be my shirt’s label, I thought to myself “hey this feels a little thicker than what a cloth label should be”

So I decided to pick it off my shirt and take a look at it–and there it was, lying on the palm of my right hand, a little weak after I picked it off and pinched it a little but very much alive, was a fucking cockroach.

I let out a guttural yell–a yell akin to the sound one would probably make if they walk in on their girlfriend being fucked silly by Souljaboy–and threw, nay slammed the cockroach to the car’s floor and prepared to unleash vicious stomps from my powerful left foot to kill the damn thing before it kills me.

For a good twenty seconds, I was pretty much panicking and just stomping away blindly all the while focusing on not trying to hit any cars in front of me.

Now, while traffic up Mindanao avenue was crawling, it was moving. So, after wildly delivering lethal blows with my left foot, I could only look down to see if any of them connected for a split second since I still needed to pay attention to the traffic.

I reached a red light in the North Avenue intersection and took the time to come up with a better battle assessment. I hoped to see the cockroach’s guts all over the car’s floor mat but no, there was no sign of the cockroach’s anywhere. My initial assessment was that, in the fierce battle, I managed to drive the cockroach under the mat where it was crushed or it found its way out the open window unbeknown to me.

Somewhat relieved, I rolled my window up and prepared to continue driving– then I saw it: The cockroach was still very much alive and in fact, it seems to have recovered from being rocked earlier when I picked it off my shirt. The cockroach was crawling on the driver’s door panel directly over the power window controls and looks like it was poising to take fucking flight.

Well, that’s fucking it.

At this point, the fear and panic I felt earlier was completely replaced with violent hatred. With the traffic light still red, I pulled the hand brake, jerked my door open which sent the cockroach crashing down the asphalt. Smelling blood and with a speed and physical grace that surprised even myself, I got out of the car and delivered a volley of brutal stomps to the downed insect.

The episode lasted about 10 seconds where I was screaming, sweating and maybe crying (I don’t remember) and, in the middle of it all, the traffic light turned green and the cars behind me started honking their horns at the deranged fat kid thrashing wildly in the middle of a busy street beside his SUV with a Couples for Christ sticker.

It was glorious.

Mike Villar: Bullshit Machine from Mike Villar on Vimeo.

My company’s CEO, armed with a video camera, ambushed me while I was dicking around on Facebook and asked me what I was working on.

Surprisingly unfazed and on my toes, my response was–arguably–the worst, most badly-delivered bullshit spat out by anyone who has ever lived.

Not my finest moment.

Also, my fellow manager Alvin Jimenez‘s reaction at 0:07 was nothing short of priceless. It’s sort of an amalgam of raw disgust, not knowing whether to laugh politely and a pinch of pity.

(Oh and thanks to Rico Sta. Cruz for adding the score towards the end of my response. It really added drama to my monumental failure.)

Now, while I’m usually off of work on Mondays, Maffy gets off at around 4 in the afternoon. Realizing that I had three hours to kill after picking up the bouquet of flowers I was going to give her, I went ahead and decided to be a little productive by taking my car to the shop and have my tires replaced and a couple of other things repaired.

Big Fucking Mistake.

The tire shop closest to where I live is this abysmal, ramshackle structure that has a non-airconditioned waiting room.

If you know me well enough, you’d know that I know jack shit about cars save for driving them. However, I was all up in the mechanic’s business making sure that he is really replacing the shit I was paying him to replace and repairing the shit I was paying him to repair–especially since how my mom kept telling me ever since I was young never to trust poor people because, in her own word’s, they “stink”, “they can’t afford a television set”, and “Here’s 500 bucks. Go back to your room and don’t play with squatters”

So, the entire time, imagine me observing the mechanic working on my car while it’s hoisted up on a lifter, engine fluid, motor oil and other shit dripping on me and touching grimy parts of my car’s under chassis just to look a little like I know what the fuck’s going on.

Fast forward to 7pm: Maffy and I walk into this swanky restaurant. I was reeking of motor oil and was wearing a hoodie which had splotches of some kind of engine fluid.

Now, because I’m generally a very insecure person, a good amount of the time we spent in the restaurant was spent with me trying to decide if I was the suckiest person in the entire establishment. Of course, “suckiest” in this context meant either “has the worst, lowest-paying job”, “looks like it’s not his first time dining at a place where entrees costs at least three times his daily rate” or “hasn’t sustained an erection long enough to satisfy a woman–or himself– for the past couple of months because of a side effect of a drug he’s taking to treat his anxiety disorder.”

The conclusion? I was, without a doubt the suckiest person in that restaurant that night. Judging solely on appearance (clothes, hygiene, grooming, confidence level, and the likelihood of having had a threesome in the past), I was definitely languishing at the bottom of the rankings. (My score being: highly unstylish, sweaty and stinky, sad and dispirited, zero unless having been “inspired” by two magazines at a furious masturbation session counts)

Anyway, because I just spent half my paycheck on a dinner that didn’t even come close to satisfying my hunger and after, sadly, winning the distinction of being the suckiest person in the restaurant in my own mind, I decided to do the only thing I know to help make things better–to drink.

Maffy and I ended up in Mag:Net cafe over at Bonifacio High Street for some beers.

Okay, here’s the thing about this entire “Rising Internet Star” deal–I rarely get recognized. I’m not saying that random people don’t come up to me and say “Hey, are you that guy with a blog? You really are fat.” They DO but it’s so fucking rare that whenever it happens, I jizz in my pants (Figuratively and literally)

Anyway, shortly after paying the bill, a guy from the table next to ours came up to me and said “Hi, are you Mike Villar?” I, hesitantly (I mean, you never know if the guy works for a credit card company I owe money to right?), said yes.

He literally exploded and said “Oh my God! We’re big fans!” motioning to the other guy he was with. He followed up with “Please, can we buy you guys beers?” Oh yes my friend, you can. Very much so.

I was pretty buzzed prior to that point and only then did I realize that the guys were JC Medina and Gabe Mercado. Apparently, the guys owned Mag:Net.

Being a star and all, I know that I should be all chill about this and act like it’s not a big deal and all, but dude it was fucking awesome. The only times I’ve been recognized like that is through friends in the same circle or some shit like that. But never had other celebrities, not to mention real, and bigger celebrities recognized me.

(I know I’m starting to sound like a total Douchebag writing this but whatever. Fuck you.)

So JC and Gabe, thank you so much for the free beers (half of which I spilled on my shirt three seconds after you left to host Rockeoke) and for joking about how you heard about how I had an 18-inch penis! Infront of  my fiancee no less! That was very classy of you, sirs!

Oh, and I’m really sorry for sort of pushing it and asking if you guys could hook me up with some free food after you already gave me free booze AND for even thinking if I should ask money for parking from you guys as well as for leaving without saying goodbye. You guys were busy hosting Rockeoke and I really had to get back home to work on my medical transcriptions. Man’s got to earn his keep yo.

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)