This blog. A little situation.

You know, it’s becoming increasingly obvious to me that perhaps someday soon, my family or people close to me will find this blog. I don’t even think this is a remote possibility since my coworkers already did. That’s fine by me. I mean even with all the risk associated with blogging using your real name, I’ve never really understood the entire point of blogging under a pseudonym.

But really, ask me if I still don’t understand it after I’ve been fired from work and I’m at your doorstep on my knees begging you, my readers, to give me money and food items while talking about shit like “providing you years and years of entertainment” and “how you asshole should give me something back.” or after my mom severs all connections with me because she can’t believe her son, who managed to place himself in the upper 5th percentile of the entire country’s elementary graduating class back in 1993, now writes about racism and giving handjobs to Japanese tourists from the back of his car along Roxas Boulevard on his personal website.

No, really, I don’t care. Because seriously, blogging is this corporate slave’s only way of living out his David Stern/Stephen Colbert Fantasy. So yeah, I’d really rather own up and say “Hey this is Mike Villar. Some of you know and sometimes even heavily censure me in your minds for writing retarded posts about breeding racist dogs and how I often get a stiff at funerals on my blog but you know what? Fuck you, because aside from tits and thoughts of getting wasted in a Makati bar with my imaginary best friend, Erik Estrada, this is what occupies my mind ten hours a day.”

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What the fuck’s up with this chick from work?

There’s this semi-attractive chick who works in another department at work who, when I run into her in the office, looks at me with such terror and lack of respect accompanied by an air of intense dislike that I can pretty much safely assume that she reads this blog. Either that or I look like the guy who premeditatedly and brutally killed her parents back in 1992. And I share the same set of fingerprints with him. And the same DNA. Whutev. Semantics.

Anyway, Miss, and I’m pretty sure you’re reading this, you really don’t have anything to be afraid of/feel disgusted of about me. Just approach me and maybe nod your head in greeting. You’ll find out that I’m actually coy and meek in real life, so I’ll probably decline your approaches and overtures at first, but if you do it long enough, You’ll get me to smile. And eventually, I’ll show you a bloodied butcher’s knife and say in a grating, guttural voice: “I loved the sweet, hot wine that came from your mother’s heart–wine that I sucked from the hole I punctured in her neck with this knife. Also, your father cried like a little bitch…”

Yes. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

An Important Life lesson from a loser

Lesson number 1: Hard work is for losers. At least until you have kids.

I just realized how some people are susceptible to confusing “success” with “how to attain success.” You probably know by now that I am not a big fan of hard work and I can’t be farther away from being a model of professional efficiency; in fact, I’m not the type of guy who’s willing to work 12 hours a day until I’m 40 so I can retire in a house in Baguio because really, how fun is that compared to spending 40% of your gross income on intoxicants and paying for as much sex as you can have as the law would allow you to?

But even with all my rhetoric, I can pretty much say that sooner or later, I will have to work harder. Yes harder and not hard because I am working hard. It’s just that I’m obsessed with producing the same quality of work while maintaining a high quality life. (And by high quality work, I mean “Spending three hours a day surfing random sites on Stumbleupon, two more hours making personal phone calls and roughly an hour playing CounterStrike.”)

I mean it’s fine that I can wing and bullshit my way around work most of the time, but this is not college. In college, I’d like to think that I had the most awesome grades-to-study-hours ratio in my batch. After all, if you could get 3’s on most subjects and get plastered almost everyday and do only the minimal amount of studying required, can’t you say that you were much better than the nerd who gets 1.5’s across the board who spends more than 9 hours a day studying and spends an additional 2 hours in the library after class? (And really come on, why do you have to constantly reread stuff? You could teach a dog to play a guitar through constant repetition; if you have to read some stupid business book over 5 times and nothing’s sinking in, don’t you think it’s better to just give up and drink with your friends or go out and cheat on your girlfriend or something?)

The thing is, I will need to work harder, get a promotion and maybe a nice salary increase because I can see myself having kids in the not so distant future. (legitimate or illegitimate. Most probably illegitimate though.) Now, because God hates me I am sure that my kids will be quite an interesting batch:

One’s going to be this band groupie who’s into drugs:

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On Fine Dining

Thursday.  Marc, Riz, I and my company’s other department  heads went to Shangri-La Makati’s Shang Place to have dinner with our company’s CEO and the COO.

Now a couple of things you should know about me: First, I don’t like fine dining and second I don’t like fine dining in a restaurant situated inside a swanky Makati Hotel because really, fine dining in Makati makes me sad.

This is largely because of the anxiety and the feeling of vulnerability and insecurity places that are imposingly fashionable and elegant make me feel. I mean come on, these places have rich beautiful women and douchebag businessman-types all over and you know everyone’s going to get some sex at the end of the night while on a regular night, my squatter friends and I are on the other side of the metro probably sitting on the curb sniffing Ovaltine Powder trying to get fucked up because we ran out of Emperador Brandy and none of us have any money left to get some more.

My anxiety was further exacerbated when we were waiting for our table to be ready and I was treated to an exhibition of groups of successful-looking, 30-ish, expatriates talking obnoxiously about something called “Attrition” who would, from time to time, pause to eavesdrop and smile condescendingly at another group from another table because they’re only talking about “The difference between the market value of our property and the claims held against it.”

Aside from these types of people, there were also young men and women who were obviously on their first dates as I heard most of them talking about their interests and shit (and face it, if you’ve been dating a girl long enough, you should be arguing with her about why she should be on the pill so you can come inside her whenever you want and not listen to her talk about how she likes Victorian architecture. That’s just silly.) Also, it looked like the ladies were wearing shoes that cost more than my parents’ first house. So yeah, sad.

What’s sadder is after they get a good buzz going from drinking expensive-ass wine, they’d probably have this conversation:

Slutbag girl: “Hey listen, you got me dinner which probably costs more than what that guy standing there makes in a month [points at me. Standing in a corner, looking at my shoes, sweating the fuck all over the place.] But I never got around to asking you what you do.”

Douchebag guy:“I’m the Vice President for International Operations of a BPO company. I have an degree on Douchery from Stanford which I leveraged to land me this high-paying job which will pay for my Porche and my beach house in Cancun. How about you? What do you do?”

Slutbag Girl: “Well I’m an Editor for–”

Douchebag guy: “Hey listen, want to go up to my room, snort some lines and fuck? It’s going to be pretty rough and there is a good chance that I’ll spit at you and call you Apollonia.”

Slutbag Girl: “K!”

The dinner itself was pretty uneventful and I really don’t have anything funny to tell you besides the fact that the Waitresses over at Shang Place were grade-A bitches. There were numerous instances when I ordered a drink and the waitress was like “I’ll bring it to you in a couple of minutes sir” when she really meant “Sir, you obviously bought your shirt from The Surplus Shop and it couldn’t have cost you more than 100 Pesos. Also, you’re not very good looking and you sweat a lot so I think I’ll get around to bringing your drink after I alternate between serving everybody else their drinks and shooting you looks of pity and utter disgust.”

But the night’s pièce de résistance came when they served us Chinese cookies and sesame balls for dessert. Being the highly cultured person that I am, I thought the Chinese cookies were Fortune Cookies and proceeded to dig into the pastry looking for a piece of paper where my supposed fortune is printed.

The aftermath: Crumbs, fudge and icing all over my shirt and the definite, imminent end of my career.

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