Year of the (Rant) Rat Wrap-up

This is a post of relentlessly emo proportions. If you don’t want to cringe and vomit the shitty by-product of some two-decade old young man’s SSDD idiosyncrasy, I ask you to close this tab and go fornicate with some gum-chewing slut of HIV origin whose boobs are sagging down to her waist and whose orifice might very well accommodate the entire male population of Taiwan continue your browsing of some cheap Maria Osawa porn. Or you could do yourself a favor and find something sensible to do, perchance guillotining yourself and ridding the world of at least one pathetic moron. That’s one less ignoramus out of close to 6.7 billion suckers.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For all its worth and for whatever petty temporal elation it has brought you, commercialized Christmas is finally over. And along with its fuckin’ passing comes the inevitable turning of a new leaf for all of us, or at least for the non-Chinese folks following the Gregorian calendar. I’ve been feeling an empty void these past few days that I could not bother to correspond to all the people wishing me and my family happy holidays, much less blog a sensible post that any Internet passerby looking for some arousing “hoinky toinky” discreetly at one Trojan-packed R18 site might stumble upon.

I have hibernated to my favorite recluse, you see. Devoid of petty stereotypes and fucked up social norms, I retreated to the comforting pages of my books. I shunned the bitchy vent outs of reality TV’s ugly villains who make my life much miserable than what it already is and traveled to Gaiman’s frenzied London Below, experienced timeless romanticism in Garcia-Marquez’s words, shared the sentiments of Zafra’s wisecracks. At least, even just for a while, they make me forget my whinings, my failed dreams, my insatiable thirst for the uncommon, my wish for a life better than what I am wallowing at as of the moment. At least, even just for awhile, I could be in a different world devoid of petty pretensions, of hopes gone hoaxes, of bitchy life becoming a tad bitchier.

Geez! What a fuckin’ prelude. Now I am ranting again. My Scrooge Christmas tells it all. That’s how I feel right now. I better not elaborate. Maybe because I’m in my early twenties and I think of myself as a failure. I have not made any significance yet. My life is contained in a cardboard box and I am letting it be. Or is it really?

A year will almost have gone by and here I am wallowing in self-deprecation. True, I am well aware this year has been marked by a lot of achievements and personal improvements and I am thankful for them. But somehow, I still feel unfulfilled, like a cup filled to the brim but only because of too much froth. Here I am, a young man well within his early twenties admired by friends and foes, by kindred and kin because for them he is one demigod celluloid borne out of comic tomes – magnanimous, mythical, excellent par none. And yet, deep down I feel there is nothing to be admired and very little to brag about.

When I was little, I told myself that by this age, I should have already fulfilled my childhood dreams, caught the stars and danced like mad under stardust sprinkles. The kind of dream that was uttered not out of sheer just-for-the-heck-of-it when asked by persistent family members but more of as a result of becoming the man that you ought to be when you grew up. The kind of dream that you don’t forget and cross out and change as you age but rather, something that you stick on because you know deep down inside this is what you want to be when you grow up.

Life was tough on me early on, you see. I had no option but to be much tougher than it. Fate threw in some vile creatures from the very pages of double douche bag reality and I could not even complain. Unlike other adolescents whose only mars include blotches of petty teenage angst and unfounded rebellion, I had to bear with fatherless childhood and proletarian upbringing and all the crappiness that a prince-gone-pauper life entails. So life’s a bitch and you have to be bitchier to live. And thus began my resolve not to succumb to the lousy, stereotypical expectations. I chose not to be a defeatist. I chose to be a perfectionist – a non-conforming, narcissistic bastard never walking the same lines all the normal, idiotic drones walk through.

I have said it before and I am telling it once again that I do not subscribe to sugar-coated miseries. I live life as I see it and I do not let petty euphemisms and sweet words wrap it. I have told myself that if I am on the verge of dying and the tube is the only thing that keeps me breathing, then I’d rather they pull the plug and get it over and done with. Spare me the theatrics. They make me cringe. Maybe I have yet to see the beauty of life, no matter how cliched that may sound. Maybe I have always willed myself to wake up on the wrong side of the bed every morning. Because I always believed that everyday, it’s always the same shit running for the nth time. Maybe because I’m 21 and I have been robbed of my childhood laughter early on. I’ve been forced to become a fucked up adult without my permission.

And this is why I whine and tell life is a bitch ’till kingdom come and hurl out sharp-stabbing invectives that only show little of what I really feel. Words will never truly commensurate to the human emotions we feel. They are just attempts to clothe what we feel and to let this human emotion shape up and make us notice it, or at least decipher a bit of it. Because what we feel is always larger than life.

I believe that all these rantings will only be ephemeral. They will not last long and someday, somehow, I will find life’s genuine meaning. For now, though, allow me to be young and restless and ranting. Allow me to digress and to wrong and to hurl out sharp-stabbing invectives. As the Year of the Rant Rat wraps up, allow me to get bruised and stand up and learn. Allow me to keep growing. In the mean time, though, allow me to rant and blog and get even with the wicked ways of the world by polluting it with my randomly semi-idiosyncratic, semi-idiotic thought bubbles.

Postscript:

This is the last post from an angst-ridden, narcissistic bastard in orgiastic moans recluse for this year. Breathing the SSDD Mantra is only young, I am aware, and in spite of its being only three months’ old, it’s nice to know there have been quite a few souls out there who have professed relating to its effing content and have put in their two cents’ worth on how diabolically fucked up this planet really is and how it would be a better place to live in if not for pathetic, stereotypical drones multiplying as rabid as guinea pig fornications. So for those folks (yes, that includes you my dear high school English teacher, you who have surprisingly stalked on this site and patted your student for a job-well-done sans the regular sprinkle of R18 profanities) who agree in ridding this macrocosm of inutile, lifeless twits, here’s to looking forward to another year of  deranged idiosyncrasies as I become one step closer to my devious plan of world domination.

Happy New Year suckers!

Lio Loco now signing off… 

Of Fucked Up Christmas Tragedies, Stephen King Nuggets, and Young Masturbation Dreams

 I just celebrated the Christmas that fuckin’ sucked the most last night. Fuckin’ sucked like I could jump on top of a three-storey building and no fuck-me-Freddy soul would even care if my gory innards got splattered and my slimy cranial juices oozed on the gawddamn floor. Pretty typical case of SSDD, I’d tell.

Last night was spent with a great deal of soberness and pondering. Much to my chagrin, almost all of the people I was expecting to bump with were either in unproclaimed hiatus or were far away from home. What I foresaw as a Christmas at least filled with reunion chats and beer overdose turned out to be just a hoax prediction of some cheap clairvoyant in Quiapo. The high school buddies I wished to see spent Christmas leaving the town. My Baguio brothers are not in Baguio anymore and just as I have feared, the forged fellowship is now meant to broken. Worse, I tried calling HER only to be greeted by some automated drone telling me that the subscriber cannot be reached so could I please try my call later. Geez, so much effort about filing for vacation leaves this Christmas.

Save for Fred, the high school buddy who has considered me his eternal pal, everyone else was nowhere to be seen. No Hacel or Sheena or other high school potpourri folks to while the night with after the mass. Yes, Virginia, you read that right. As much as I despise this overrated holiday with a high dose of unadulterated revulsion, I have dragged my ass to the refuge of sinners and dopes not so much as to hear the father’s recycled homily but more so as a result of my closest high school friend’s unnerving nagging. Allow me to repost my Christmas Scrooge litany:

I have grown to become the most fucked up shrinking Scrooge this side of the archipelago and to be honest, I don’t celebrate Christmas with much gaiety; I just actually sleep after eating whatever has been served in the Noche Buena table (save, of course, if there are any drinking marathon to attend to). I’ve learned early on that the beer-bellied Santa every stupid child adores is nothing but a pumping pedophile marketing ploy for capitalists to earn more moolah.

For this narcissistic fuck-me-Freddy bastard, Christmas (like the friggin’ Twilight saga) is overrated. I mean, really now folks, we’re fooling ourselves if this is the only time of the year that we practice our selfless I’m-giving-you-this-gift grandstanding. If you really are that proverbial Good Samaritan, you can choose to be selfless and caring and giving and whatever positive adjective is usually being over-used during this season any time of the year and not only when the advent of Christmas arrives. But fuck you and all your smooching clan if you’re one of those who think they’re gawd-sent goodie-goodie creatures of society giving their piece of wealth and spreading pseudo-humanitarian good cause and good words to the poor and destitute only when December marks your calendars.

So there we were, Fred and I, sitting in one of the porches situated on the left wing of the church amidst a throng of rumor-mongers’ unending yadda yadda yadda. Stereotypical people who are far worse than the mecha’s of A.I. for being contented with a monotonous life without progress. Piteous folks who’d rather be still and not move while slowly being swallowed by the sinking quagmire of dreamless thoughts and vapid social norms.

In the middle of the reverend’s give-love-on-Christmas-day litanies that only a few of the multitude pseudo-pious-slash-genuine blatherskites have the resolve not to bore through, we had snippets of conversations of what’s ups and what-nots. He told me I changed, not only because I had the Zack clone do that I have loathed since its creation but more so because blatantly, I was speaking in an unrestrained tongue that spoke of failed dreams and bitchy life and hopes becoming hoaxes. I told him I was becoming tired, that being a “call boy” is slowly getting the nerve out of me. I confided life in Manila is already dragging me to death and I thought I deserved something better and I had no choice but to live with the same shit every different day. He felt the drudgery, the boredom that stabs and replied back, “At least you are still out there, trying to live out your dreams, not incarcerated here. Unlike me who has always liked to escape from this provincial stagnancy but being kept enchained still.”

Such horrendous truth. Sharp-stabbing truth that had me speechless for awhile. Truth, as they say, will set us free. I believe that it will. But at certain points, this fuckin’ truth is what has been imprisoning us behind bars of absurdity and pitch-black void. Queer, isn’t it? There we were, two young men in random musings about our how our lives are taking shape so far, oblivious of wasted spits and mutual post-Christmas mass coitus, and I could not help but be serious and ponder. The fact that life is a bitch had ruptured me in such unawareness that I had to think hard where the fuck exactly was I heading. Quite exactly, I ask my alter-ego, where do you think you’re going, you double douche bag friggin’ bastard?

I’m already in my early twenties and this fact just makes me all the more unsure of myself. My youth is my recluse and I am using it as an excuse to living this life as immaturely as I deem it to be. I rant about life being such a clusterfuck bitch because that is the only way I know to deal it with. I have dreams, big dreams that no sooner will become ashes forgotten if I let it happen. Reminds me of Stephen King and his indirect allusion to such stark truth. Dreams are for kids and once you become an adult it shrinks. And you can never go back to pursuing it anymore.

So I have to move, to be always on the run, grinding, seizing to halt, because time is not on my side. If I want to realize my dreams, then I should do something to make them a reality. If I don’t want to be part of the fuckin’ statistics of lifeless drones and braggart bastards, then I have to learn the trick of life’s trade. This is not how I would want my life to end up being. And this is not how I thought this Christmas post would turn out. But then again, there’s always you who molds it, and directs it, until it becomes something that is oddly reflective of you.

Someday, somehow, I will read this post with either eventual maturity over petty youth rants and whining verbal diarrheas or with a destitute defeat forever in search of life’s fucked up significance, forever a vagabond of perished dreams and hopes gone hoaxes.

Sheesh! I’m becoming a tad deep, I see. Oh well, so much fuss about this fuckin’ Christmas tragedy. In the mean time, excuse my Plato idiosyncrasy. I deserve a friggin’ cold Stallion bottle – with or without company. 

There and Back Again (Alternatively Titled: Can’t Wait to Live the Fuck-Me-Freddy Life with Sea Breeze-slash-Mountain Air for Almost Five Clusterfuck Days!)

The sappy I-think-I’m-in-love shout out is over. Surprisingly, a lot of people contributed their two-cents’ worth and the general sentiment was I am not really a hundred percent Fuck-me-Freddy narcissistic bastard as what I claim, or at least, display myself to be. I could be the mushiest romantic in the entire macrocosm, they say.  I do not disagree. Maybe, deep down inside, I am really a passionate poet waxing lines upon lines of love and devotion, of woe and wooing. But when we come to think of it, people can be the least person that they expect themselves to be when they’re in love. And if this girl reciprocates eventually, then the hell I care for being branded as the mushiest person in the entire macrocosm. I’d say it would even be all worth the tag. So as of the moment, I am harnessing all the bloody chakra I could muster to put my empty words into action.

In the meantime, though, I’m back to my fuckin’ narcissistic clusterfuck bastard mantra. Folks, welcome back to regular programming.

So my expectation to celebrate this overrated holiday season in front of a lifeless circuit shell yakking some technical gibberish to some dumb clusterfuck in the other side of the world is nothing but that, a failed expectation. In spite of all the shitty remarks and bastardly way of sinning I’ve been so accustomed to for the last quarter of this year, the Guy Up There seems to still favor me more than His other pious believers. I’ve been a mischievous boy as of late and I have anticipated reliving Dante’s Divine Comedy come Christmas time but what do you know, this fat blood-colored asshole from North Pole has checked his list twice and rewarded me for being a naughty bastard. Much to my surprise, the vacation leaves I filed half-heartedly have been approved (it is Christmas and rarely does a call center company allow VL credits during these times) and I think I will be smooching the company work force management’s wet fart-laden asses. Bleech! Or maybe not. Nevertheless, I’m finding my way back home this holiday rush and I admit I’m becoming giddy as hell.

Almost five fuck-me-Freddy days! Five days of living the bastardly life devoid of molested ear drums and yadda yadda tonsils, five days of trading the vacuum life of Manila to the leisurely laidback slow mo pacing of Pangasinan-slash-Baguio. Five days of drinking marathon for crying out loud! Sweet-leapin’-jeezuz-christ! This early, I am planning my itinerary to make the most out of the pseudo-demigod rock lifestyle. Or rather, I am recycling the itinerary that I failed to accomplish miserably in my Beer Bakasyon post. Every fuckin’ second counts and I would like to believe I will be making good use of it this time around. So in the spirit of Beer Bakasyon reruns, allow me to enumerate the things I ought to do:

1. Drink a lot of booze.

2.  Finally meet up with high school friends whom I terribly miss and whom I have not seen since gawd-knows-when. The last time I went back home, I said I will but failed to visit Hacel and Fred and Sheena and all the other potpourri folks back in high school. I’m keeping my fingers crossed this time, and hopefully I won’t become beer bloated to finally pay them some reunion-deserved pop in.

3. Drink a lot of booze.

4. Finish reading my book backlogs. I’m bringing with me dried cum-splattered porn magazines quirky Zafra and superfluous Garcia-Marquez and some other random pickings in the hope that I won’t drool in the estimated five-hour trip (I’ll be traveling back home right after my sleep-deprived last shift from work so it will require a lot of effort and constant prodding not to doze off while in the bus). Oh, and yes, Crispy Rai, if you’re reading this my apologies for the too-long-hoarded Gaiman paperback. I promise to finish it this time around and I will be giving it back to you come 27^th. Here’s to looking forward to more book lending from you. Haha! And I do hope you find you’re Salinger copy soon. I’m itching to read it. :p

5. Go to Baguio and have a much-anticipated gin-slash-beer drinking session-cum-reunion with my Baguio big brothers whose company I likewise terribly miss; the inebriated chorus of us all reverberating across the whole mountain air, ignoring the barangay watchman’s warning, reliving yesterday’s OPM bands through Kuya Charlie’s guitar, complete with the majestic dripping fog of the highlands makes a wicked picturesque scene. I was informed that some have already moved to some other boarding house and still others have gone back home in the province to rest for awhile. It seems that the fellowship is destined to be broken eventually but I hope not. And I do hope that when I hike up to Baguio this time around, we can relive the beerkada once more.

6. Drink a lot of booze.

7. Finish the blog post about our recent call center team-building in Tagaytay that happened a long, long time ago.  I sure hope I would find the inspiration to finally finish the much-delayed team-building chronicle. I checked out the pictures from our Google team account just recently and they’re still intact but I can’t find the insanely neurotic picture of my teammate Rap and his love-to-be-fucked asshole devoid of bacon briefs and short shorts in full view to all of us. We all laughed hard as hell for the crazy antic and I thought it was hilarious in a mad Rap persona way. I need to find that pic because it’s going to be my center piece for the post. Haha!

8. Keep in touch with cousins who, like me, have deserted the ancestral compound in the province to search for greener pastures in the Idyllic City up north or in the Hasty City down south (or maybe, just to stay away from the looming stagnation and bondage that provincial life has to offer).

9.  Have some quality time with my cute little nephews and nieces who, the last time I chanced upon, were gaining weight like pigs groomed for the next big wedding and were ballooning in such alarming proportions. Would you believe I’m coming home with nary some bucks to spend save for my fare ticket just so these cute, little angels could have the gifts they want from their equally cute Tito Lio? Never mind though. For as long as I see them giddy and scatterbrained over their new toys, I think I could bear being penniless for a day. Of course the pauper stance is just brief as I am told we get to receive our month-end pay early - on the 24th to be exact. LOL!

10. Rest. Sleep. Lie down like a dead-tired Snorlax. Drink a lot of booze.

Tough list, I see. Especially on the conspicuous “Drink a lot of booze” repetition. But I am a resolute clusterfuck. And come hell or high waters, I am determined to accomplish it this time. Of course in between these lines are my start-up tactics with the woman I am currently becoming head over heels for. Head over hills for? Jeezuzchrist! I am becoming a softy again as what axl has mentioned.

So I’m cutting the crap before I start  moaning over Eva Fonda, who the green (literally and figuratively) Ferbert, I am aware, is so selfish to not share with other sex-hungry bastards well within their early twenties  speaking similes and romantic aphorisms. I’m making this short because I’m in a rush to go to work and I wouldn’t want to be caught in the middle of friggin’ fuck-me-Freddy traffic along Taft Avenue.

I’d rather not be late today or else, the company demigods might change their revenue-hoarding minds and burst my giddy five-day nirvana bubble by telling me that the approval for my VL application has been revoked.

Postscript:

I have grown to become the most fucked up shrinking Scrooge this side of the archipelago and to be honest, I don’t celebrate Christmas with much gaiety; I just actually sleep after eating whatever has been served in the Noche Buena table (save, of course, if there are any drinking marathon to attend to). I’ve learned early on that the beer-bellied Santa every stupid child adores is nothing but a pumping pedophile marketing ploy for capitalists to earn more moolah.

For this narcissistic fuck-me-Freddy bastard, Christmas (like the friggin’ Twilight saga) is overrated. I mean, really now folks, we’re fooling ourselves if this is the only time of the year that we practice our selfless I’m-giving-you-this-gift grandstanding. If you really are that proverbial Good Samaritan, you can choose to be selfless and caring and giving and whatever positive adjective is usually being over-used during this season any time of the year and not only when the advent of Christmas arrives. But fuck you and all your smooching clan if you’re one of those who think they’re gawd-sent goodie-goodie creatures of society giving their piece of wealth and spreading pseudo-humanitarian good cause and good words to the poor and destitute only when December marks your calendars.

So for all its worth and for whatever petty ephemeral elation this might bring you, I’m throwing in my half-meant holiday message to all my readers: Have a Merry Christmas to You and Your Family! 

Because My Sleepless Subconscious is Yearning for You

I attempt

to weave these

empty words in the hope

that someday, somehow you

will bring back the naïve smile

that had me sinking like poor Jack:

weak yet contented over seeing his

Rose for the last glimpse before

he finally gets swallowed by

the depths of icebergs

and loneliness,

yearning.

I had to go

because I thought

you longed for embraces,

soothing warmth,  passionate  breath

far better than I could offer. But you don’t

have to tell me your sighs; I will own the fault

for assuming that you yearned  for the

dashing prince who will wake you

 up from your melancholy.

I am an ugly frog,

You see.

I hope that

you realize I am

a Van Gogh, an aberration

in a society of pretensions, perverts

and dogs cowering for measly leftovers.

I do not belong to this ephemeral place;

but you taught me to feel, to love,

 to realize there can be ease in

this maddening crowd of

pains and anguish.

You are

the wings of ethereal

beauty that plucked me from

the withering tree of sins and solitude;

you who changed me, showed me there

are things that I cannot fathom, there

are emotions that I cannot help

but feel and accept and

share with others,

with you.

Now

I will not lie

and beg off, pretending

that I did not feel uncontained bliss –

dancing, rioting in the swirling jungle of my

wickedness and narcissism — upon learning

that your wings, those heavenly arcs

that had me eat my words

afterwards, are free

to fly again.

This time

around, I am ready

to wait, wait till you reach my

hand and show me how it feels to fly

with you; even if it takes eternity, if the

Apocalypse gets in the way, till the clichéd orange

fruit grows in an apple tree. This time around, I am

ready to offer my left ear when the Starry

Night begins to weave magic and

remind me of you, my ardor,

my veneration to an

angel like you.

*I am not good with verses; I am more confident when I write prose instead. But I was able to weave these words after not being able to sleep today as I used to. Drat! The odd feeling is crawling up my spine again. I hate this feeling. Makes me look like that jologs Robin Padilla character revealing his feelings to Regine Velasquez agitatedly.I think I’m falling in love again. Sheesh!

Ahhh….You Give Us Inebriating Orgiastic Moans, Eva Fonda.

 *Meme Question: What do clusterfuck corporate-enslaved bastards well within their early twenties normally do during their supposed grace-period-from-hell day off?

Meme Answer: They drink their guts out until they become inebriated like a drunken Shaolin master and salivate over one smokin’ piece of crotch in primetime TV.

First off, before you accuse us of how fuck-me-Freddy sex perverts me and my gang are, I would like to give a clarification. We only met the oh-so-yummy jeezuz-christ-can-I-please-fornicate-with-you sultry coitus goddess Cristine Reyes by accident, and not because we’re porn maniacs with hidden raping tendencies. Allow me to explain:

Me and my drinking buddies, a small clique of dead tired, underpaid Third world employees, rarely get together because we have our own bitchin’ priorities to whine our day with. Some are desperate, first time father figures who tend to become startled and disturbed whenever their just-born princess lets out a commanding what-the-heck-are-you-looking-at-can’t-you-see-I-need-milk cry; others are incarcerated boring yuppies busy slaving their way to the corporate ladder and in the process, are fast-becoming lifeless drones; and still, some are narcissistic bastards alternately preoccupied between living out the dignitary family man title from hell, polluting the Internet bandwidth with idiosyncratic whines, and fiddling with their woody wanker digging their graves through graveyard-shift jobs.

It is then something to celebrate about whenever this band of brothers find a coherent, common thread to get together and spend the time just raving and ranting over things mundane and philosophical. They are aware that occurrences such as this happen only once in a fuckin’ blue moon and thus, the imperative for some kick ass celebration. By celebration, I mean merry-making over some round table with Red Horse booze oozing with ant-sized cold sweat and slender GSM bottle necks to give you company.

So we had the dinner table arranged into some friggin’ booze haven where ambrosia and demigod liquor descended from Olympus and sat around like some rugby kids eager to grab their toxic addicting supply. We couldn’t breathe out cryptic Paraluman and other OPM melodies courtesy of Eman’s guitar prowess though as we were located in the 3rd floor of some clusterfuck apartment near España.

A digression: Just last year, during my birthday celebration, our extreme hilarity and merriment was abruptly suspended by some howling reprimand coming from an irate next-door neighbor. The old woman, who I suspect has never orgasmed over a phallic organ and will die as a never-has-been-fucked spinster, spoke in that oddly accented English that would remind you of that Bb. Pilipinas booboo and told the already tipsy booze lovers that “we are naht inna fow-rest, we are inna bell-ding!!!” (with emphasis on the exclamation points). I suspect she spoke in the American language, albeit in a horrendous enunciation at that, to impress upon us the kind of breeding she has acquired in her coitus-denied existence. The fuckin’ bastards we were, and not being impressed over her pseudo-refined upbringing, we said sorry but continued to hark strings upon strings of our brash youth’s music out and loud. And yes, her one liner was our favorite butchering subject for a week.

So avoiding the same unhealthy next-door-neighbor relations we once had and believing that one day, we will fall into the trap of coveting thy neighbor’s love-to-be-fucked wife; we opted to drink this time sans the guitar strumming. Which explained why our libidos torpedoed in alarming heights that night:

The best thing about drinking in front of the boob tube is the observation that when you and your mates have run out of things to bash about, there are always the TV’s innards to dissect. This time around, between gulps of cold Red horse booze, we kept on changing channels in the fucked up yet-to-cabled TV to find some gawddamn sensible program that would not insult our intelligence and look what we happened to chance upon. While I could say that our neuron-rich heads were not insulted, I would have to confess that it’s the “other” head that got into trouble. We managed to stumble upon primetime TV’s new coitus symbol and boy, did we get mum! Mum as in dead silent, where all you can hear are TV soap’s moans from two characters making out in the rock-hard bamboo-stringed bench and the clearing of throat of the person sitting next to you. Suddenly, you notice that nobody’s talking anymore and your groin, much to your mortification, becomes beefed up and bloated. You become uneasy in your seat, hushing your trouser snake from revolting lest someone notices it and christens you by the Totoy Tigas moniker. You crouch like Ang Lee’s famed Oscar tiger, hurt and aching, because that glorious part of your pelvic region is stiffening and wants to stab Eva Fonda’s clit.

And then the game begins: The first person who stands up and goes to the CR, after secretly drooling over Cristine Reyes’s subtly peeked cleavage and watching her in various stages of undress, will definitely earn the mocking accusations that he will release the heat in the form of self gratification. You can have no excuse at all. They will not buy the reason that you already drank too much liquor and you need to take it out of your gallbladder or else. They will just taunt you and jeer at you and call you names like the Great Masturbator this side of the planet. And so you remain with them, you remain lusting for Eva Fonda and her huge twin knockers, you remain hankering after her smooth legs and the much-desired cunt in between them, you remain watching Cristine Reyes in all her naked glory and half-wishing, half-hoping you were reprising Baron Geisler’s role instead. You remain because you are one normal guy with sexual urges and coitus convulsions. And for the love of gawd, you remain for them to prolong the agony of your already crumpled prick.

So this was how we chanced upon the new primetime TV star, one inebriated night when libidos were spurtingly orgasmic and furrowed groins were crouchingly aching. This was how this drunken bastard gang met and bonded once in a fuckin’ blue moon.

Geez…I only hope this MTRCB Laguardia keeps blind over the subtle hints of pornography. Because Eva Fonda is giving us inebriated orgiastic moans and we’re not even complaining. Now, that’s one early Christmas wish!

*Meme – a colloquial term that means anything that is unimportant and irrelevant but you still take notice of it anyway for lack of anything better to do; e.g. meme surveys (those out-of-the blue, random questions that you are asked to answer) abound in Friendster bulletins

Congratulations Me: Certified Call Center Whore!

November 27, 2008 (ignore the date; this letter was just given to me yesterday)  

 Lio Loco

Technical Support Representative

America’s Fastest Internet Service Provider (and the Chosen ISP of Hollywood Stars, if I may add; yes, we talk to A-list celebrities in America - Jennifer Lopez, Brad Pitt, Bruce Willis just to name a few; one of the few consolations of being an ISP Tech Support rep) 

Dear Lio Loco,

Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you have achieved regular employment status in the company, effective December 8, 2008.

As a result of your successful performance reviews during your probationary employment, you are definitely on your way to building your career in Makati’s Highest Compensating Call Center Company.
Your passion for performance and drive for success are fundamental to the Company’s vision of becoming best in class with its people, partnerships and performance.

Geez! Isn’t my company so fuckin’ sweet to sugarcoat the fact that after six friggin’ months of being enslaved every night in a red swivel chair in front of an idiotic lifeless circuit of motherboards and RAMs and talking some technical gibberish in a fake American accent to some dumb Occidental on the other side of the globe to avoid being called an Indian (For call center agents, that’s the foulest, vilest, ugliest taunt you’d never wish your customer would hurl at you by the way; and of course, that’s something I haven’t been branded with in my entire, almost 20 months of call center experience! Ha! Puh-leaze!), I am still in Makati’s Highest Compensating Call Center Company andstill kicking ass at that!

Oh yes, Virginia, money is a great motivator I tell you. I have endured this sissy clusterfuck Twilight novel vampire lifestyle of being a yadda-yadda nocturnal contact agent because of the moolah that comes with it. Had it not been for the five-digit salary that I get every 15th and 30th of the month, I would have long been gone to this odd job that curtails your right to live a fuckin’ normal life. Since I was burdened with a “social responsibililty” that needed urgent attention after graduating from college, I had to make a choice between practicing the profession that I studied for more than four years or jumping into the burgeoning call center business back then. At that time, I was still the next door, giddy-two-shoes good boy, not the clusterfuck narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard that I am today. Naturally, my priority was the social responsibility over personal ambition so I picked the “call boy” offer and put my CPA ambitions in the backseat. Which brings me to this whining, drowning abyss that I am wallowing in right now.

As I’ve mentioned in my previous post, the moment you sign the call center contract the sly, backstabbing HR hands you, you must be aware that by affixing your signature in the paper you are giving away your freedom and right to a healthy lifestyle, family bonding, and romantic relationships. You have to accept and be aware of the things you have to unwillingly compromise - time, friends, sex, relationship, romance, gimmicks, family, lifestyle. These are the words that will have to be deleted in your vocabulary. Where before, you have the luxury of unlimitexting friends and fiends for carefree what’s ups and what nots, now all you can do with the ticking clock is make it sufficient for a sleep-eat-work life cycle. And if you can still get away with an eight-hour dozing, then you’re already lucky. ‘Cause anything below that is considered just normal.

So just in case you have plans of jumping into this call center bandwagon, allow me to help you think a hundred times and decide rationally lest you bang your head in the wall later after you’ve been caught donning the suit of this freakin’ much ballyhooed job of supposedly high stature. When you become a call center agent, be prepared to:

The Tale of Feeble the Fart

Once upon a time there was a Baguio boy-reluctantly-turned-Manila lad who, after getting bored over air-cooling in the smallest mall he’s ever had the chance to kill the time in the oh-so-fuckin’-polluted airs of Manila, decided to go to capitalistic SM Megamall out of the blue. Let us call the male protagonist of this stupid modern tale Lio Loco.

Now this Lio Loco, being raised in the provincial suburbs and having exercised his geographical prowess only to the extent of crossing the pedestrian lanes in pickpocket-infested and pseudo-herbal-roots-in-a-jar-peddling Recto, texted a colleague on how to go to he wretched giant air-conditioning unit in Ortigas and was given two options: via the Quiapo way and hail an FX en route to SM Megamall or via the Cubao jeepney course and hitch a bus ride going to Ortigas. Fearing to be mobbed by a pack of hungry hawkers scattered nearby the famed Basilica of the Black Nazarene, Lio Loco chose the latter and got thrilled to be exposed to an unknown territory.

While Lio Loco was on the jeepney, fate threw in some quirky characters straight from Roald Dahl’s novels for company. There was the band of stupid colegiala’s from some Asian Thingy University (he knew the name of the school because he was able to look at their name plates conspicuously pinned in their  huge, love-to-be-sucked mammaries breast pockets) who, at every pit stop, found it oddly exhilarating to snort like mad hyenas. There was the brown Sleeping Beauty of Payatas who thought sleeping inside a moving vehicle is advisable, never mind if her constant nodding and stinking drool elicited laughter from the already-demented student sluts. There was the shrinking silver-haired passenger who, in his distant daydreaming, found there’s completely nothing wrong with wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of Arizona boots of a forgotten Hollywood era in a country that curses and celebrates the sweltering heat at the same time (depending on where you are geographically located).

After minutes upon minutes of oh-so-fuckingly-insane picture of twisted reality TV blurring in his head, Lio Loco trusted whatever sheer instincts he had and decided to alight in an alley under a recognizable overpass where an infamous (or famous, if you’re one of the patrons) hotel promoting sex as a pastime (like a dessert after a hot, delicious bulalo meal) is located nearby. His subconscious told him to ask someone where the fuck exactly do you have to take a ride to go to SM Megamall but his manly pride got the better of him. So he walked quite a long stretch until he found his way to a zone where rows upon rows of buses abound. He observed his new ecosystem, looking at how people alight and board from one bus to another and was rewarded for his patience for within a striking distance, a barker with a bad case of halitosis harked out, “SM! SM Megamall! Ayala! Ayala!”.

To cut the long chase, because I know you’re getting bored over this fuckin’ tale shit, Lio Loco was able to go to SM Megamall but got lost again finding National Book Store. It has always been the first in his itinerary, whenever he visits a mall – to first off get to a nearby bookshop. More than anything else, he loves to get lost in alternative realms, in the flighty mountains trailing to Mordor or within the reclusive insides of Hogwarts Express or in the queer underground entrails of London as depicted by Gaiman. He could be lost for hours without any care, never mind if his stomach is in the mood of protestations to get fed, because deep inside these very pages he could just be whatever he wants to be; there are no eerie people marionettes blindly following some written  rules with hypocrisy or bitchin’ clusterfuck society dictating the norms.

So it was that Lio Loco finally asked the wicked bitches of the Information Desk where his first pit stop was and proceeded to take the moving stairs up the fourth floor. He rummaged over the sweet feast for the eyes and brain with delight and found himself lost again in the land of make-believe these “pen people”  have so effortlessly created.  He loved the odd scent of the printed papers, whose every page lies the children of letters and words and sentences dancing madly in the wind, breathing his escape from stagnance and oh-so-sickeningly-fucked-up social incarceration. And only after satiating his hunger for the printed word did he remember that it was the last day for reserving a copy of Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard and rushed to the Customer Information lady for the reservation. Unfortunately, though, the friendly NBS lady informed him it was in Powerbooks that he could enlist for the reservation so on he hopped to the next bookstore.

And this is where we find the hero of our story in combat with reality’s vile and wicked characters. For after getting the receipt from the counter and deciding to stay for awhile to peruse over a thin-bound entitled “Tikman ang Langit: An Anthology on the Eraserheads” that piqued his curiosity (anything with the Erasherheads label will make him look again), Lio Loco found it hard to concentrate and digest the essays paying tribute to his favorite OPM band because he was slowly dying of air pollution in spite of the smoke-free air-conditioning that the neatly styled bookstore was churning out. He suspected it was the fat lady to his right whose armpits were as tight as some eternal virgin’s pussy that was polluting the air. He tried to ignore the foul smell and slightly positioned himself to his left side but much to his dismay, The-BO-That-Must-Not-Be-Smelled continued to wreak havoc, intoxicating Lio Loco’s nostrils with the vilest and foulest smell ever created in the entire macrocosm. Lio Loco tried, and tried, but he could endure it no more and so he wished this friggin’ bitch babe that she receive a year’s supply of  “tawas” for free.

He transferred seat and this time found himself again in such an unfavorable dilemma. For while the bench was undoubtedly free of cheap, B-list “putok” from down under, this time around it was filled with unnecessary hysteria bordering to lunacy. Here was a young woman who was so into Jessica Zafra’s Twisted 8 read that she forgot she was in a public place for chrissake. Oh for the love of gawd, the demented idiot echoed every Zafra sarcasm with a stupid laughter from some Mandaluyong asylum hall, like telling to the entire, freakin’ human race that yes, Virginia, she could read and she has a literary taste for picking up a book like Jessica’s ironies. Oh puh-leaze, Miss Pseudo-Literati from Hell, just because you picked up a worthwhile read does not mean you’re already into the elite book circle. Your theatrics annoy me so go home and fuck your schlong-deprived clit.

Oh, geez! Now this is not a once-upon-a-time fairy tale for the children anymore. I, the narrator, am beginning to rant a verbal barrage of profane R18 invectives. And so Lio Loco went home, far from the stupid chuckles of the moronic pseudo-bibliophile from hell and the dizzying underarm spell of the body odor bitch, and he lived happily ever after.

Oh, puh-leaze…This Much Ballyhooed Golden Boy is Just Gold-plated.

Fine, I was one of the eager Pinoy boxing fanatics who stuck their behinds inside their houses, glued on their TV sets while rallying behind our much touted Pambansang Kamao during his Dream Match yesterday at Las Vegas, Nevada, never mind if I only had four hours sleep after arriving from my grave-yard shift at past 7AM.

Who wouldn’t anyway when this iconic sports star can easily unite many people in great discord just by entering the boxing ring and pounding on his opponent like mad? Consider the swift and smooth flow of vehicles in the city’s major boulevards and avenues yesterday. Or perhaps PNP’s report that, except for a case of a stolen wallet at a public free viewing stadium in Tondo, not a single crime happened yesterday. Or heck, even the conflict areas in Mindanao had their taste of tranquility, at least even just for a few hours of Golden Boy-Pacman bout viewing, free of machine gun ratatats and wails of just-orphaned children. With all the surprisingly good series of fortunate events that occur in this country every time we have a Pacquiao match, wouldn’t you wish that every day the veritable south paw always bloody cracks some Mexican’s well-chiseled nose?

This time around, since I have my own moolah to part with, the much-awaited boxing match had me in double adrenaline and anxiousness after I decided to have a bet with my teammate. Naturally, since dela Hoya was the taller, more experienced boxer, and with a longer arm’s reach at that, everybody was expecting the famed Mexican to win hands down. Only, their misinformed guess was wrong because they overlooked the fact that Manny was fighting for his country, and that’s the greatest motivation that always had him give his best performance in every fight. And if, by any remotest chance, dela Hoya indeed knocks down Manny in a round, I’m pretty sure Manny will immediately get up to his knees, shrug the sting, and fight back like hell. So Mark, my teammate, picked the Golden Boy over his Pinoy compatriot and I already had the feeling his bet is already in my bag. Manny will floor this Mexican of great braggadocio because he (dela Hoya) was only fighting for his own glory, saying that Manny’s age and speed are his motivation for the fight,; something that wreaks of denial that yes, he’s had his time but now, please move over because we have this Pinoy boxer as a yardstick for action-packed matches.

And boy, was I right! While the girls in the house were breathless and dreamy over Oscar’s handsome looks, I remained confident that Manny will emerge victorious in spite of his goon looks and bad guy moustache. Yes, the Max Alvarado do suited him because it made him all the more buff and quite ready to rumble indeed! Oscar, on the other hand, looked very much less of a boxer but more of a sissy Hollywood leading man of a B-list movie. For chrissake, this is boxing and the sports discipline requires a display of brawn and tough Mike Tyson mantra!

Another noticeable difference was how Manny bounced like a human trampoline, flighty and grinning to the maddening crowd as compared to the serious and sobering aura of Oscar, a conspicuous omen that told me he’s only bluffing when he announced to the world he’ll knock out our pound-for-pound boxer in 5 rounds (which proved me right after the Golden Boy camp chickened out at the onset of the 9th round).

And, yes, now I know how it sucks not to have cable TV service in the house. While greedy network station GMA delivered slew upon slew of crappy commercials, I had to text the folks back home in the province for live account of what was happening at the moment. While fuck-you-sonuvabitch-go-to-freakin-hell GMA killed the tensed non-cable TV viewers with a rerun of endorsers (I was already puking over an ad showing for the umpteenth time of a forgettable super glue brand with a man glued upside down to speak of its supposed reliability), I had a text update that said the fight was already five-rounds long, and Manny was dictating the action. Come 8th round in the cable viewing back home and with no Dream Match yet starting to air in the fuck-me-Freddy TV bigwig in our Sampaloc apartment, I had a text that said Manny won and yes, I should already be relieved over the bet. I guess this is how one feels when they say it’s bittersweet. Sweet because I won the bet and Manny ruled the match but bitter because all the go-shove-your-fuckin-gloves-up-Oscar’s-ass exclamations and gritty air-punching that I would have done while Manny was pulverizing Oscar’s pretty boy image would ultimately be suppressed by the fact that I know the outcome of the match even before I could watch it.

So I need not do a retelling of what transpired during the eight-round long boxing match because I know you had your fuckin’ arses burned like smokin’ bacon in your sofas as you watched the Dream Match, ending the Filipino salvo with raised fists of triumph and pride. I was happy as well that at least for one single moment, the Philippines is known the world over not as a haven of cheap sluts and ass-kissing chambermaids but a country of great sports warriors like this remarkable boxer named Manny Pacquaio. And for this, I guess our appreciation over this brilliant sports icon is just expected.

Now, with the overrated hero’s welcome and overrated parades that will ensue during Manny’s arrival and his planned retirement come 2009 to prepare for (wait…I need to grab a blade and slash my wrist first) his congressional bid yet again, that’s another story.

Finally, After Ten Thousand Years of Down Time!

Okay, I am only exaggerating with the banner head.

So my domain host has finally risen from the ashes. After several days of religiously checking on my blog site and being annoyed, er…make that frustrated upon knowing that it was “time for the site’s regular check ups” as admonished by a picture of a lady with a big mouth open wide ready to swallow the sweet cum juice of my throbbing above average schlong in a striking medical check up stance, I can finally heave a sigh and yes, slash the blog backlogs that I’ve been itching to cut down ever since my site went kaput.

I know, I don’t have any bastardly right to complain since the domain host is basically gratis. I.ph is a free blog site catered mainly for the Pinoy demographic (although non-Filipinos are also welcome) with a penchant for blogging (newbies and professionals alike) and as it harks in its website, is a perfect “domain name for individuals.” I was attracted primarily because the domain name is too short and thus, would be a perfect tool to have the blog site easily remembered. Also, unlike other blog domain hosts offering free blog site hosting, it is not yet blocked by my company’s restricting IT department and hence, more time for me to tinker on it and perchance write a sleazy Johnny-is-doing-this-as-of-the-moment post during loooooooooong avail time at work.

Allow me to digress: I just cannot comprehend why for the love of gawd, these IT freaks, or maybe as directed by the 1984-ish (geez…I really have to grab a copy of that Orwell novel already) companies themselves, keep on blocking sites left and right much to the detriment of their employees. I mean, c’mon capitalistic folks, do you really think we’d be more productive without us accessing Friendster or Multiply or Facebook perhaps? Do you even have any solid proof or a study conducted indicating the inverse correlation of a company’s productivity and the manpower’s narcissistic thirst to ogle at their put-on faces on social sites or browse through their boring lives as chronicled in Wordpress? The answer of course is a screaming NADA! Our performance in the daily rigorous work routine lies not in checking how many proletariats viewed our Friendster profile or how many hits our latest post about bitching a much-frenzied pseudo-literati novel got. We are an intelligent working class whose amount of toilsome duty can only be perked up by a just and equal motivation. And by that, we mean the things that we get from you every 15th and 30th. So go fuck off you shameless scumbugs and continue not in curtailing our right to write a new blog post or satiate our hunger to see our beautiful, narcissistic selves in the famed social sites for East Asians while at work!

Whew! So much about the right to express. Anyway, going back to the topic, I signed up to this free blog site because I thought it was a wise move to have a domain name so short just so people you bug to check your site would recall its name the next time they think of checking it out for lack of something better to do. What is even an added bonus is how the domain looks like your very own paid domain, not something offered for free, because of its extreme shortness (only three letters). Not that I like everything delivered to me free of charge. Of course, I have plans of having the site upgraded to premium service but for now, I am in the state of getting a general feel of it, like how Microsoft releases a beta version of an OS only to overhaul the damn stupid machine to fix a lot of bugs and glitches. Sadly though, my current sentiment speaks more of jumping to another ship rather than stay on with the cruise if the unfortunate looooonnng downtime that occurred would be regarded as the basis.

I have asked a lot of people and their two-cents-worth is going Wordpress because (1) it’s the fastest rising blog domain providing free hosting and (2) Google always lists Wordpress first among other host providers during word searches. (e.g. I’ve tried to Google lio loco once, and what do you know, my dead Wordpress account came out on top of my moniker search and this site was only listed on page 2 already.) Only problem is, the famed domain host is actually being blocked by our unreasonable sonuvabitch IT freaks. Plus of course the fact that I’ve already poured out a lot of good stuff in this site and moving to another domain means starting anew again, devoid of old posts and annoying your friends again with petty litanies of “Hey, I’ve moved to a new blog site already. Check the new site, will you?”.

So I guess I’ll give this domain host a chance to prove its worth and hang on for a few more months. If I find the service quite okay and the downtime is reasonably kept to a minimum, I’m ready to forget the lame “medical check up” excuse and embrace a new relationship with I.ph. I really hope I’m wrong in thinking that this domain hosting site is only as good as it looks like. Here then is the list of my blog backlogs:

• One of my close friends, Tina, gave birth to a cute mirthful angel by the name of Gwyneth Chance. The apartment has been filled with amusingly annoying (well, annoying in a positive way I guess) ruckus of attention spans and giddy curiousness ever since Tina’s little baby girl entered the abode.

• I had a “smelly” Powerbooks experience just recently with a person who does not know what primitive “tawas” is for and a Jessica Zafra fan whose over-acting giddiness qualifies her to an eternal stay in Mandaluyong’s asylum halls while I was reserving a copy of Rowling’s Tales of Beedle the Bard.

• I also want to share my encounter with fraud evangelists harking their prophecies inside buses and what I think about such vapid entrails of society.

• Likewise, I will post a rundown of queer reasons why I love Manila with all the “throbbing veins in my bivalve coronary organ.” LOL! You do know I am using sarcasm at its convoluted Stephenie Meyer’s best, right?

• As usual, I am also thinking of writing my recent drinking marathon with my beer buddies and how we ended up ogling at Cristine Reyes’s uh…ahem…”bosom buddies” and how oh-fuckin’-sonuvabitchingly convincing she was in her portrayal of Eva Fonda. Now you know why our rape statistics is alarmingly orgasmic.

• I just watched the Dream Match in oh-so-fuckin-greedy GMA what with all those barrage of TV commercials (We have yet to subscribe to a cable service but it’s already on its works. Right, Tina? LOL!) and yes, Virginia, I won a hefty sum bet. Sometimes, life, indeed, can be very sweet!

Meanwhile, excuse me for a moment while I pick up my sanity and compose worthy posts devoid of roaring rants and bitchy backstabbing.

I’ll be right back after this short slew of commercial constipations.

This is Me…Now!

 There’s something about a pair of scissors and high swivel chairs that gets the goose bumps running mad in my system. I don’t know about you but the clippity clip of the shears trimming my tresses makes me gnash my teeth to death. It’s like paying a cheap bitch, all in her spoiled meat glory, for a night and not knowing whether you’re already part of the growing AIDS statistics the very next day.

To be honest, I have never liked the smell of newly cut hair droppings and talcum powders because it only reminded me of all the barber butchering that I went through in my two decades and counting of existence. Several times I went inside that blue-and-red-and-white-swirling post parlor with high hopes of emphasizing how bastardly beautiful I am like the ancient Narcissus but several times, I went away with a cold slap of reality check and an ugly haircut from Mars as a consolation.

Back in high school, my teacher has always been mindful  about good grooming and all that shit that whenever she finds a boy in the class with a girl’s hair (read: long and wavy), she bugs that head-banging, Metallica-mooching kid to get a haircut or else. An “unteacherly” act I believe that reminded you how that despotic moustache ordered annihilation of thousands of Jews mercilessly. I had my fair share of the beating and when I showed up the next day with the new do, I half-wished I was back in my mom’s womb again so as not to hear the shitty remarks like “Who cut your hair? You look horrible!” or “Is the person who cut your hair still alive?”. The meek kid that I was, I had to bear with the crappy comments and had to wear a Bench baseball cap to hide the by-product of the infamous barber butchering for one freakin’ month.

You can only imagine then what a nightmare of sorts it was for me when I finally had my mane trimmed yesterday.

 My hair, already rapidly growing like rampant corruption in this friggin’ country, has become itchy and unbearable. Split ends and wavy curls aside, I have found it too irritating to sleep after my shift not because of the blinding sunlight in the vines but because of the constant pricking that my neck has been subjected to. Too many times, especially when the city air in the apartment is too hot to endure, I have found myself waking up in the middle of my Jennifer Lopez coitus dreams gasping for breath not because I am about to reach the point of no return but because I’m sweating like a hoisted pig in spite of the electric fan in full blast and thus, making the ends of my curls as weapons of mass destruction.  So much about the constant consternation about not cutting my hair to finally experience the wicked ponytail hairstyle of rock demigods.

 And so, with no one to accompany me to the wretched salon (yes, Virginia, for all the pricey cost just for a sheer trimming, the hair house has to be called a salon, not a bland barbershop), I trudged the path going to Recto’s own brand of air-cooling pit stop for bummers and finally decided to bid adieu with the long John Lennon locks. Blame it on some friends’ disgusting conio crap and capitalistic upbringing but I surprisingly willed my way to the famed Bench Hair Fix Salon to be barber-butchered once again.

A digression: I bear a quarter of the blood of the thrifty Chinese within my veins and I do not let go of my hard-earned moolah that easy.  I find it unreasonable to spend extravagantly over some measly haircut much less shelve close to two hundred bucks just for some society-bound tidy hair-do.

The barber (uh…is it appropriate to call a hair cutter confused of “its” gender a barber?), a big man with a shining fuchsia lip gloss painting his/her lips that made an impression he/she just ate crispy pata for lunch and a Gretchen Barreto hairstyle to boot, asked me what type of hair cut do I want. I said it would only be “just a trim, please maintain the seemingly Korean male protagonist’s essence of the hair.” The uh…barber nodded and I felt he/she knew what she would be doing. So I sat there and watched him/her work her way over my growing, Wu Chun-ese hair.

Snip. Snip. Snip. I am still okay so far, the tresses  were still long. I even found the shampoo they lathered on my hair earlier quite intoxicatingly good. Fear factor check: Nada. Snip. Snip. Snip. I was already feeling that dreaded fear, which was dormant for awhile. Hair trimmings were dropping  quickly left, right, and center. For some reason, I feel the pain of US corporations badly hit by the economic crisis. Snip. Snip. Snip. Jeezuzchrist! Whaddafuck? What was he/she doing with my hair? I quipped, “Uh, it’s just a trim please. No need to overdo it.” He/she quipped back, “Right. Just making sure you look like the next Koreanovela star.” He smiled like Snow White’s wicked step mother.  I sighed and said, “I think that’s it. It’s fine already. Thank you very much.” So he/she delivered the finishing touches, dabbed some expensive Bench mat here and there, used his fingers to sway the hair left, right and center, and before I knew it, I looked back at the mirror with a reincarnation of a morphed Cloud and Zack of Final Fantasy fame.

So now, I am an anime clone and I will be bearing with this spiky do for Gawd-knows-how-may-months before I go back to my beloved John Lennon locks. Judging the reception of my friends over my new do, however, I think shelving out close to two hundred bucks for a mere shear is justifiable. They said it fit my slit-eyed Chinese features and brought the bastardly beautiful Narcissus out in me. Haha!

Oh well, this is the new me and despite all the shitty dread and all the crap I went through, I think I am liking the new do a bit more.