I hate your…
Bedheads. I’m sure you’ve seen some of these people around. I mean seriously, you know these people were getting their lunch monies bullied out of them up until they were in high school and pretty much shunned by everyone in college.
But, all of a sudden they become the poster boys for Manila’s hip scene because they have this “look at my hair, it looks like I just woke up but guess what? It actually took me two hours to fix my hair. Oh and I am a web designer and I hate everything” haircuts and they wear skinny jeans and expensive sneakers.
Let’s back up a little here: Hasn’t “not trying too hard” always been one of the more important credos of being cool? Have you guys learned NOTHING?
Deodorants. As a man who sweats more than humans are physiologically built for, I am very critical of deodorants. I only use those heavy-duty, high-endurance sports sticks and I’m proud of it.
Let’s stay away from and leave those roll ons for sissies because, I, need the sticky white stuff clogging the pores in my pits and make sure that I’m dry all day long - Just fucking crust it up there like that.
I’ve never really understood roll ons. I have no idea why anyone would wear them and how this shit was given the green light to be marketed in the first place:
Roll on inventor: “I created a new deodorant product! It’s a thick, sticky fluid that when rolled on to an average man’s armpits, will make him feel hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. In addition to that, it isn’t as effective as the stick deodorants we currently have on our product line up, it makes stains on your shirt as soon as you put them on and has you stinking like a shoe after doing 5 minutes worth of anything phsyical. What do you think?”
Company CEO: Do it. And make sure you get Dingdong Dantes to market the shit out of it.
I don’t get it.
Candles, incense, a homosexual and an epiphany (of sorts)
Last night found me with lit candles and incense in my newly-decorated room while reading and drinking some leftover rum I found in the kitchen. Friends, this is what Mike “Fucking” Villar does sometimes to unwind. And really, can you think of better things than cheap liquor, a book, pleasant scents emanating from burning things and the sound of an infant’s acute distress and suffering to alleviate a week’s worth of work-related stress? Exactly.
And yes, I realize that this could be the start of a long, downward spiral into an empty, hedonistic existence. Or maybe I’m just really weird or maybe sexually confused or something. I don’t know.
I also know that, to you, this sounds really fucking weird and trust me, it is. I mean, a 26-year old man locking himself up in his room with candles and incense while reading books and sipping rum is not exactly considered “normal” or even “remotely heterosexual” in most cultures, but I feel relaxed when I do this so fuck off and judge me all you want but ask yourself this question when you do—Did I ever judge you? Even after I accidentally ran into you SM Megamall’s lingerie section sniffing sports bras? Thank you.
Anyway, last night, I ended up reading David Sedaris’ Holidays on ice. Now, David, admittedly, is one of my favorite authors and one of the few openly gay people I genuinely respect. However, upon perusing about twenty pages of Holidays on ice, all the fuss surrounding it wasn’t readily clear to me.
Of course, probably one reason for me not getting it is that my mind was muddled with envy.
As with most “Web” guys, I am envious of and hate everyone who are relatively more successful than I am especially if their success allows them to be famous, write a book, be free of any form of debt or bang attractive women (or in David’s case, men?) left and right.
The book was recommended to me by someone whose literary taste I consider impeccable so I continued reading it anyway.
It was actually a short read (the book only has 144 pages) and I was able to finish the entire thing in under four hours. Surprisingly, towards the middle, I found myself not able to at all times and the other did sorties to alternately pick up the plastic tumbler into which I poured the rum and bring it to my mouth or down my pants to touch my bird and mildly pleasure myself.
Stupid Flowers
Something I realized lately was I’m probably sending a lot of flower shop proprietors’ kids through college with the business I’m bringing them.
It’s not that I don’t give flowers to girls I’ve had relationships with in the past but lately, and this is probably because I’ve been screwing up a lot and giving my girlfriend flowers is necessitated more than ever, I find myself regularly visiting flower shops.
I’ve never gotten how flowers work and the polarity between how easily a man can get a girl flowers and how much women enjoy and fuss over them is something that never fails to amuse me. I spent countless hours wondering why and last night, somewhere between watching porn and running my Internet drug cartel I think I stumbled upon the answer.
On a guy’s perspective, sure, flowers seem like a really retarded gift– the women who receive them cannot wear them, they cannot consume them, nor could they grind them into a fine powder which they can sniff the hell out of and get fucked up on (This I’m not sure of. I mean, can you? If you’re interested in trying this out, shoot me an email and maybe we can make a documentary about it or something). In addition to that, they’re considerably pricey and they rot in a few days’ time. So yes, flowers, as seen by guys, are gay, costly gifts that do not have any sort practical use to anyone who receives them.
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Birth Control, Condom Dry Run
There comes a time in a man’s life when he manages to stay in a relationship for more than three days, get sex semi-regularly and when thinking about birth control is actually necessitated.
I, ladies and gentlemen, am at that juncture in my life.
As I see it, I currently have two options: 1) Make the girlfriend go on the pill (Which, I believe is something every girl should be on after the second date anyway) and 2) Use a condom.
Now let’s talk about option #1 first. To say that I am iffy with the idea of making the girlfriend go on the pill would be an enormous understatement. Reading up on the matter, I found out that the common side effects of the pill are headaches, depression, change in intensity of sexual desire and response, vaginitis and vaginal discharge–things which defeat the entire purpose of even thinking about birth control which is to get as much sexing as humanly possible. I mean vaginal discharge? Eww Come on!
Gary wants to punish me
Okay, remember when I blogged about how I wanted to get a gym membership just because I liked the gym bag that comes with it? How about that short-lived diet I had going on?
Well, I think I’m finally getting my act together because recently, along with a couple of friends from the office , I finally got a gym membership and consented to being subjected to an exhaustive and rigid training regimen.
But, instead of being all optimistic about being whipped back into shape, I think I may very well be on my way to gaining all the weight I lost from my short dieting stint.
The reason: I think my shoulder–the same shoulder I hurt on a sports-related freak accident back in 2001– is shot to shit. I think I might have busted it yesterday when I forced myself to do a pathetic 165 lbs on squats. I know, I know; you readers who are into body building and shit are probably laughing your steroid asses off and saying “Well, if you did your squats properly there shouldn’t be any reason for you to hurt your shoulders because when you do squats, the bar should rest below your shoulder blades” and to you I say “Well that’s easy for you to say because if you’re as fat as I am, you can’t really tell your shoulder blades apart from the rest of your fat-laden back even if your life depended on it” and laugh at how funny you look in your muscle shirts and arm tattoos.
I told our group’s trainer, Gary (who is some sort of Mixed Martial Artist and whose secret mission to turn me from “Mike Villar: Rising Internet Star, Fat Chops” to “Mike Villar: Stamina God and Purveyor of Pain” is becoming more and more evident each day I work out with him)about this yesterday and his response was something to the effect of “I can see your Vagina through your shorts. Oh and welcome to the world of serious working out. And Pain.”
The friends I work out with say that a certain amount of pain and discomfort is to be expected when you work out seriously and yes, I probably do have a vagina, but when my body’s so sore to the point that I cannot even guide a spoon to my mouth with my right hand to eat, well, something’s definitely amiss.
(Oh and Gary said that he was going to “punish” me if I do not continue with the program tomorrow after I explained to him that I might not be able to work out for a while because of the chronic shoulder pain bothering me. He said that it doesn’t really matter and he’s still going to punish me and my family so yeah, I’m kind of freaked out by that.)
Now, I’ve sunk deeper and deeper into a pit of depression because I feel like a pussy and a failure.
This morning, I contacted the orthopedist who worked on my shoulder two years ago to have it checked but his secretary said that he won’t have clinic on the hospital closest to me until Monday next week. Apparently, saying “My shoulder’s feel weird” doesn’t evoke a sense of urgency from doctors.
So yeah, fuck that. Instead I’m going to sleep tonight and hope that my shoulder magically heals mostly out of admiration for my will to get back into shape or, I dunno, maybe it will just decide to fall off or something. I mean, at least if that happens, I can get a cast and have an excuse not to work out for the next few weeks or so. And maybe I can confront Gary and say “What? You honestly think I wanted to blow my shoulder out and not work out? I’m in a fucking cast! How about a little sympathy you asshole?”
So yeah, I just thought I’d write about all of this because I know you assholes love it when I fail at something. Also, I promise this is the last time I’m going to write about health shit. Expect the next update after I hit the 300 lbs milestone.
"The personal blog of Marketing Strategist, Rising Internet Star, Man Blog editor, child pornographer, alcoholic, and cokehead-- Douchebag Jones--Err, Mike Villar!