Silver Linings

On Monday, Maffy (For those who just tuned in, Maffy’s my Fiancee. What, and you deserve a fiancee? Shut up then) and I celebrated our 2nd anniversary of being together. Being the quasi-romantic that I am, I went for the entire flowers, nice dinner, excessive flattery and showering and brushing my teeth deal.

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”

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On Eastern European Models and my Three-headed Penis

About a week ago, I had this really peculiar erotic dream about this girl I used to have a crush on in Grade School. It was so strange and vivid that when I woke up, I had to fight off the urge to rummage through my old shit to find my grade school year book, track her number down, call her and say “I hope it was good for you. Cause it was fucking awesome for me!”

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.

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Fresh Pickings

The first week of June usually marks the start of a period of extreme mental and emotional strain to me. Allow me to explain:

In the Philippines, the first week of July is when classes start for a lot of schools nationwide. And, for someone like me who drives a good 56 Kilometers a day to and from work, the transition from the summer break where traffic is pleasantly light to the start of the school year where traffic reaches “I am so frustrated right now, I wanna wrap my penis around the steering wheel and karate chop it until it gets numb” levels is traumatizing to say the least.

If you’re familiar with Quezon City, you’d know that this is especially bad in the Katipunan area where several universities and colleges are located.

Anyway, earlier I found myself in a monster traffic jam on a part of Katipunan avenue where major roadwork was underway.

Now, here’s something you probably don’t know about me: I pick my nose like a 200 year-old Chinese man would. This is something I do without much regard for anything–in a drinking party with friends? I’ll send Mr. Pinky right into the mines and won’t call him back until he has enough green gold to call a haul. Bored while watching a movie with the girlfriend? In goes Mr. Pinky again. I do this shit everywhere.

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Congratulations America, YOU’RE A DICK!

I’ve always had this carping feeling that America doesn’t like me much. A perfect example would be the time I landed in LAX a couple of weeks ago: After a monster 12-hour flight from Manila to Los Angeles–a flight that left me, surprisingly, tired, sleepless and high as a kite because of the tranquilizer tablets I took in flight–the Immigration officer, instead of stamping me right through deemed it necessary to send me over to secondary for admissibility review. Apparently, the fact that I “Speak English too well” and that I had a newly issued passport with me raised some flags. (Or I dunno, maybe because of THIS and THIS?)

Admissibility review is a section immigration officers send people who range from naturalized American citizens who’ve been out of the country for dubiously long periods of time to those whose identities are questionable.

I thought to myself: “Hey, it can’t be that bad, I just need to tell them that it’s normal for a lot of Filipinos to speak fluent english, idiots. And maybe I have a new passport because I didn’t need one until now and got it for the sole purpose of this trip? Again, idiots.”

Boy, was I wrong.

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California. Preparation. Drugs.

Three weeks ago, I woke up and decided to leave the minutiae of my boring everyday life and do something fun without much regard for anything aside from my sudden, inner impulse. So, I booked a flight to Los Angeles–My plan? I had none. I intended to be a transient speck of dust, going where ever the wind takes me all the while contemplating my existence*.

*The above paragraph is a complete and utter lie. The company I work for actually invited me over to work on the user-generated content/social piece of a bad ass website we are going to launch very soon. Also, in the process, I got denied a US Visa–twice; so, the only thing “transient” and “spontaneous” about the entire thing was the fucking money ($232 to be exact) I spent on my US Visa Applications. And my ego.”

Anyway, after finally being approved a US Visa and facing a monster 12-hour flight from Manila to Los Angeles, one of the very first–and probably the most important preparation I made was to see my shrink. Long time readers of this blog know that, sometime last year, I developed this paralyzing fear of traveling on a plane. So I visited my psychiatrist and explained my situation to her adding how I noticed that I’ve become a little claustrophobic all the while trying to sound as normal as possible and being careful not to say something that exudes undertones of my intentions to abuse the shit of whatever pill she is going to prescribe me.

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