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.

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A letter to the girl working the drive-thru window at McDonald’s fairview.

Hello,

Even though we have spoken many a time before and you get to see me at least 3 times a week, it has come to my attention that we haven’t been properly introduced. I am Mike Villar, Rising Internet Star, and I want to make lots of babies with you.

You probably only know me as the really fat guy who sweats all over my car’s upholstery and orders a double cheese burger meal with large fries and large soda. I, on the other hand, know you only as a semi-attractive minimum wager who promptly yet gracefully hands me over my order and tries to upsell some McFlurry to me. But, given the proper avenue, I am sure that we can get to know each other on a more profound, more erotic level.

Now our relationship, though only in its early development, can grow I believe into something that we can cherish for an eternity. I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m not only after your body and I know that behind your cheap foundation and the poorly applied makeup that makes you look like a stick of special espasol from Laguna, and that cute red McDonald’s uniform which I’m definitely going to ask you to keep on when I assault you with my genitals, you feel a faint attraction to me. I don’t know what it is exactly that you see in me but perhaps it has something to do with the look on my face that simply screams “I’m willing to punch my mother in the face if you would just let me touch you” or perhaps the fact that I violently shake the loose change in my pocket while rubbing my crotch and mouthing “there is plenty more where this came from” in my best sexy manner appeals to you. I don’t know.

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Personal Branding shit

I’ve been working closely with Marco the site guy, one of the country’s most acclaimed web designers (By ‘most acclaimed’ I actually mean ‘someone who does nothing all day but smoke pot and ramble about how the government is screwing all of us), in conceptualizing and implementing a new logo to be used for this site as well as in my business cards and pretty much all my marketing collaterals.

After paying him a handsome amount of money(Lie. I gave him nothing but a small rotting piece of fruit and a high five), he came up with these studies:

After a heated debate on which color we should use on the final iteration, Marco and I got into a fist fight and came up with this:

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Women can suck my sweaty balls

I was IM’ing with my Ex-girlfriend the other day and she had this to say about one of my posts:

 First of all, I call shenanigans on the dick size bit. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to have a dick bigger than 4 inches. (But then again, I’m not exactly a dick expert considering I’ve only seen two dicks in my entire life: mine and my dad’s. Both are under 4 inches. Sorry dad.) And second, the fact that a woman can insult my sanity and, indirectly, my dick size in one fell swoop corroborates and further justifies my misogyny.

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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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