Creating a Plan to Stop Drinking Will Help

How You Can Quit Alcohol

If you are having difficulty to stop drinking alcohol, you might have to make a specific plan or scheme to put an end to your drinking problems. It is not easy to quit a habit that has been into the system for so long but if you know what you are doing and you are familiar with the next actions you have to take to overcome your condition, you can easily combat the addiction. Having a detailed program or plans will get you out from that terrible condition.

Lots of people are drinking alcohol without realizing the consequences it will bring to their lives. So, this piece of information can help you to quit drinking alcohol and will guide you on your journey. If you are looking for methods that can help your or someone in your family get out of alcohol addiction, this short essay is appropriate for you. If you are one of those people who are drinking too much, then you know now that abusing alcohol only affects your life negatively. You should now prepare yourself to overcome those side effects.

A lot of people are encountering stress and worries and this situation may have led as to alcohol abuse. Drinking alcohol may have been their way of getting out of those stresses. Alcoholism has been considered as the cause of many problems. If you are planning to quit drinking alcohol, it is a very good decision that will eventually lead you to a much improved connection to your loved ones. You will have a better health and a better future as well.

Creating a plan to stop drinking alcohol also needs a complete understanding to the subject matter. You can make an effective plan and successfully implement it later on by learning the required steps. Having a plan that is not medically proven or is just suggested by people who are not legitimate to make such prescription will only generate negative consequences.

Always ask doctor’s help or medical advice if you want to make an effective plan to stop drinking alcohol.

Winky Has a Brother and His Name is Blink

Pothead's two year long basking fixation finally ended (or so she claims). I don't know which one of us is having the worse year, but one thing's for sure, our random lottery of bad events and series of near escapes are definitely competing for peaks.

Here’s a bulleted relay:

• The first half of '05 is finally over, that was some lecture on melancholy101 plus some units on suffrage and disorientation we've gone through (there are instances when the comfort of the cliché “everybody hurts” no longer works, during this era it didn't even exist). Well up until now Pothead is still having her pathological July beating and I’m also being given some walloping every now and then. The latter half's still not cutting any slack for both of us; I’m starting to want to seek the advice of feng shui experts on rooster deliverance.

• Being a bum is never a norm, but apparently our business idea is still left unsupported. There’s nothing wrong with selling diapers, but nobody seems to foresee the dynasty that we are capable of building through mass producing poopy handlers (or maybe it was wrong to have seen that Kutcher flick in the first place, it kinda prolonged Pothead's dwelling in the dark side and instigated this compulsion to make money from baby outputs).

• We still have our food trip plan and our walk trip plan kept as plans. The lack of heroic flashcards really hinders one's fantasies. Last night, I went through one of my most pitiful experiences ever. I got the all time condemned monthly visit from my blood bank and didn't have any emergency nappies with me. On my way home, I stopped by 7eleven to buy some support tools and realized that I wouldn't be able to go home if I buy a pack of one decent brand. I was almost succumbing to buy the poor gelai's nappies (a.k.a. "Those Days") but I saw this other brand, that was probably invented by nuns, it's called Sister's, and some bit of morale was left in me (the nun thought also made me feel holy, maybe through bleeding some of my sins would actually gush away). If only that moronic guy at the counter didn't expose what I was purchasing to the entire world, my night would've ended up quite acceptably.

• Pothead's parents are now harassing her about finding a job; she's unbelievably considering the call center industry calling (I still doubt practicality winning over her HUMONGOUS pride though). I am, unfortunately, a call girl now and after nine days of work, my mom's already asking for the ROI ("Inay, hindi lahat ng tao sumusweldo tuwing kinsenas!!! @#!^&$@"). I haven't even told her that I’m working in a call center. REASON: She wants me to work in one. She once told me that I’m the biggest disappointment in her life. I want to live up to that expectation.

• Two disquieting diseases were realized through the diagnosis of Pothead’s behavioral anomalies. One is the Gepetto Syndrome and the other is the Hala Kari Syndrome. The first is described by the unexplainable attraction felt toward those in the 18 – below age bracket. The despicable drive to manipulate the youth reflects the need of the disease carrier to become a master puppeteer, hence, the name “Gepetto”. I remember this instance when we were going to McDonald’s, Malabon, there’s this high schooler who passed by us and Pothead gave out a moan of some sort followed by a quivery voice, “Ang ganda nung bata…” Scary? It gets worse. We were now eating – no, I was eating, she was poor -- apparently, classes have ended, and the high schoolers flooded the fast food place. Pothead got totally busy checking out the community of people, who haven’t even reached maximum puberty, and spotted one amongst the crowd. “Ayun o, ang ganda ng katawan, pwede na…” The Hala Kari Syndrome is depicted by the ill desire to fight lopsided battles or losing ones. It induces the “I’ll wait for you forever” mind set. It clogs the carrier’s philosophies and principles, and even make the carrier have an unamountable appetite for her pride, leading to the development of voluptuous frontals and a monstrous behind (physical effects may vary, on Pothead, they are very much visible).

Þ There’s this text anecdote that I got from Trent some few years ago, it goes like: Once there was a cat and a rooster crossing a log bridge. The cat went first and fell off to the water. The rooster looked at the drenched cat and guffawed his heart out. MORAL OF THE STORY: For every wet pussy, there’s always a happy cock (double standard… I know). POINT OF THE STORY: somebody needs to get laid.

Disclaimer:
Ran out of topics to write about. I’ve been the usual observant that I am and I’ve been having just a bit too much threshold of observations that I don't know how to begin putting any of them into words. I guess, being a corporate whore really leads you down the road to dumbnation.

Want Dick, Tracy?

Want Dick, Tracy? (07-18-2009)

It just suddenly became unbearable, the office asininity, that is. I haven’t written anything for quite some time (2 years of wonderwalling). I’m feeling as though I’ve acquired a dismal amount of rust in the functional sector of my brain and I’m trying to shake some off if possible. It just cannot be as pristine as it used to be. Getting older is scarier if dumbening is part of the process. Anyway, in this chosen “career” of mine, neuron death rate is included in the job description. Yes, we do consider that as occupational hazard. I’d be brain dead at the age of 35.

Anyhow, I’ve read something interesting lately. When I say interesting, I don’t mean intestine-churning, so no – it’s not the Twilight series. But something rather about the Twilight girls, Kristen Stewart (a.k.a. Belya) and Nikki Reed (one of them vamps), being amongst the envied-hence-oppressed-minority. Well, it’s not really a fab thing if Kristen is indeed gay. I mean, she dated Michael Angarano for four freakish years, yes; the Sky High boy who went all muscular in the Forbidden Kingdom yet retained the minute face of Jack McFarlane. If she can beard as long as that, then everything for her must be a phase. Nikki Reed, on the other hand… is a completely different story.

Here’s one during their New Moon photo shoot. Certainly not done for publicity, I don’t think the gay community is really a target market for movies such as this.

Ok. I’m just psyched. I was forced to watch the Tweaklight movie due to peer pressure and sanity lapse, I know I’d be forced to watch the New Loon sequel as well, but at least now there’s actually something to look forward to.

Another very interesting faction I’ve stumbled upon lately is Bleighton (Blake Lively and Leighton Meester). Yep, Gossip Girls’ Serena and Blair. There’s this web shrine containing gazillions of photos of them posing for… who cares who they’re posing for. Who cares why they’re doing it? It’s just fun to stare and smile… *a very wide smile* while hoping it’s true… that they do understand.

Pretty much everyone has been out lately. Even in our marshland of an office, eGay Inc. has recruited crows of the same murder. It’s just sad that the classes dominating the fields right now are orcs in search of a Master Piece. Ergo, leading to the assumption that everyone who belongs to the lesbian community is rummaging to have a dick. I don’t want a dick, I don’t need one -- in my mouth or in my pants, attached or penetrating.

It’s just at times dismal, the way people presuppose. If being what the society coined as “normal” works for you then shut the gates of your straight lifestyle and quit convincing other people that that’s the righteous path to follow. Sexual preference does not delineate or degrade the value of a person. Close-mindedness does though.

Straight people should keep straight idealisms to themselves. It’s one way of keeping respect in the axis of all that must remain taboo and fighting the very infectious idiopathic existence of those living detached from the guidance of their brainstems, especially in call centers.

And with this, I succumb to awesomeness, Blake and Leighton… you complete me.

The L Word Parody

“Tomboy ka ba, anak?”
"Mom, I prefer the term lesbian."
- The Narcissistic Princess

It’s been a few weeks since I had the pseudo-confidence to admit to my mother that I am one of those legendary evil-possessed residents of Sodom and Gomorra. It wasn’t exalting, pukish -- yeh, traumatic, condemning, relieving, all sorts of emotions combined in this thermoplasmic cocoon of immense inhibition. I know that she knows about my sexuality someway somehow, but denial was her only cushion and I dared take it away, totally drastic and inconsiderate of me.

I don’t blame her. Growing up with this culture… Being a Catholic and a moron… I shouldn’t really expect much open-mindedness from someone who has been held captive for a very long time by the vilest creature that ever walked the surface of this planet, a.k.a. my grandmother.

Our conversation or my confession slash interrogation was actually hilarious, or rather ridiculous, for its explicit contents. My mother’s not very well-known for her thinking abilities but the injection of anger or disgust or misbelief or whatever it was that dwelled upon her, pushed her to retire to retorts that made gore and violence pleasurable to the eyes of minors.

Inclusive of lines such as, “Ang sarap sarap maging babae…” and, “Sinasayang mong mukha mo sa babae ka lang papatol…”

Never have I once said that I didn’t like being a girl. The Ang sarap sarap maging babae line was conclusive of a misconception that I wanted to be a chap. How gross is that? Why the hell would I want to be something that I am not attracted to in the first place?

This society we’re struggling to survive in believes in the dismal idea that we, lesbians, are willing to give up everything in exchange for a cock. Trade the curves for chest hair and a mono brow. Prove Jack Nicholson’s character (in As Good As It Gets) right as to how a woman should be defined –- a man without reason and responsibility. Concur with me when I state, it is the other way around.

The machismo. The double-standard views. The homophobia. The constant propaganda of the religious that we are amongst the children of Beelzebub. How do we break free from all these?

After all the pride marches there are still only four countries honoring the legality of same sex relationships. Though, I don’t really care cos I don’t believe in marriage, and I don’t join the pride marches. A lack on my part? Sue me. Provide me a lawyer.

Yet, who’s to blame really? The pretenders? The bandage wearers? Those who choose to strap their bosoms with a male’s under garment garter? Those who’d rather have their hair two inches above the ear and three inches above the nape? Those who aren’t willing to accept their being a woman at all?

We cry, “Discrimination!” We yell, “Acceptance!” When most of us haven’t truly acknowledged who and what we are in the barest essence of being ourselves – biologically female and not able to grow a beard.

Resulting to brands. Submitting to roles. Adding confusion to an already confused sexuality. Is uncertainty such an in thing now that the more perplexities there are the better?

Nowadays, there’s a new opening query in lezpinay (a lesbian channel, obvious by its name), it’s no longer “asl?” It’s now, “femme?” Well, amazing, aren’t we all females here? Or, “f2f?” I don’t know if that stands for ‘free 2 fuck?’. If it happens likewise in a faggots’ chat room, would they have to result to queries such as “m2m?” or “papable?”

It’s sordid. Supposedly, you are in an all women chat room, able to expose that element of you that remains skulking in the closet when you’re with your value-laden family and friends, and still, you’re forced to limit your already limited range to a more limited variety.

Women acting like men. Women not wanting to date the women who are acting like men. Women who do not want to date the women who are not acting like men because (they say) it’s like dating their best friend. What’s with all the classifications? What’s with all the labels? We’re all part of one group here. We’re all members of the oppressed. Quit shunning each other for crying out loud!

I got propositions:

Those who want to prance around with their humongous clothes, shave their imaginary mustache, grow armpit hair, and screw girls for a living – whore around for a period of time, save enough money, surgically complete your long-imagined forms of transmutation, and get the hell out of our genre.

Those who are under the influence of the Anne-Heche-Lesbian-For-A-While-But-Later-Married-A-Guy-And-Forgot-About-Everything-That-Happened-With-Ellen-Degeneres Syndrome – make up your minds and don’t use your own version of selective amnesia as an excuse to be welcomed back to the hypocritical majority.

And finally, for those who are happy for being what they are, not engulfed by pretensions and not humiliated by their sexuality – steer clear from my mother.

“Ang babae para sa lalaki, hindi mo pwedeng sabihin na mahal mo yung kapwa mo babae, ano ka.” Long pause. Clattering of plates. Tinkling of utensils. Stern look back at me with gaping mouth. “Anong gagawin nyo non magpipingger-pinggeran?!”

Confession of an Alcoholic

If you consider yourself as an alcoholic, you must do something quickly. There are many stop drinking programs you can implement whenever you decide to give up the habit. Alcoholism treatments in stopping drinking can be effective if you have the required willpower to end your misery. Click here to know more.

Now is the time that I realized life is better without alcohol. I should have known that before. I am hooked to alcohol and almost my entire life was ruined by alcohol addiction. I am now in my stage of recovery and I am trying to be sober as much as I can. At the same time, I am fixing my life now and I am doing my best to restore my personality and life. I believe that alcoholism is only a word, not a sentence. Everybody has a chance in getting out of alcohol addiction and everybody can choose whether he will break the habit or not. I chose not to be a slave of alcohol and want to overcome all bad things which happened in the entire time I am dependent to the habit. We can also help others to stop drinking and tell them that there is light at the end of the tunnel. We should always remember that we can beat alcoholism on our own initiative and we can control our cravings to alcohol without relying on alcohol rehabilitation program or stop drinking methods. It may be hard to stop drinking on our own but with proper techniques to stop drinking; we can deal with it accordingly.

We should act quickly now to overcome all the problems related to alcoholism. If you believe there is a dependency to the substance which you can not control at the moment, you should seek advice from alcoholism experts or healthcare professional to know your real condition. It will also make you understand if your can stop drinking on your own or you need to undergo treatments in an alcohol rehabilitation center. The medical person can give you advice on how you can overcome cravings or mild alcohol withdrawal symptoms. But if you are diagnosed with extreme alcoholism, that means you have to admit yourself into an alcohol rehab facility. It is very dangerous to stop drinking on your own. If you are considered as chronic alcoholic, you should get help from alcohol addiction experts. You should acquire assistance from alcoholic support groups as well.

Your family can be the best support you can get. They will provide you the motivation and determination while in the procedure of stopping drinking. They can also give you the inspiration you need to motivate your self that you need to stop drinking and continue your fight against the disease as well as the withdrawal symptoms and cravings. Getting motivated is an important factor when you decide stop drinking. If you do not have enough motivation you may not find it easy to beat alcoholism and can lead you in giving up your journey. Family’s support will lead to have a tough willpower to keep on your struggle.

Stick to your plans and do not allow any thing interrupts your system from stopping drinking. You can also motivate yourself with all the negative situations you came across whenever you are under the influence of alcohol. Always think that you need to stop drinking because you don’t want those from happening again. Always remember also that it’s your health that you put at risk if you drink too much.

Be sure to implement a stop drinking program that can help you maintain your recovery and will prevent relapse in the future. There are lots of stop drinking procedures that you can find on the internet to help you beat alcoholism and recover from it and maintain the recovery forever.

Sofa Giver and the Straight Chronicles

It’s noticeably criminal. Pothead is getting a bit too much exposure in this blog than she deserves. Even her own show in QTV 11 doesn’t give her that much favor. But do watch May Trabaho Ka every Sunday at 8:00pm – this is my way of paying her back, cos I haven’t seen an episode properly. I might get my name scratched off the acknowledgement list… that’s my closest chance at stardom.

Moving on. This entry is dedicated to a high school friend of ours, who thought I copied the entries in my blog from anonymous writers and pasted them here as some sort of “collection”. “Ah, ikaw ba sumulat ng mga yon?” she asked with bulging eyes. “Hindi nga? Seryoso?” I’m calling her Sofa Giver.

Sofa Giver has this fixation. She often falls for the straight ones. She’s a novice bisexual and had two failed attempts at straight women. I’ve had one failed attempt at a straight girl back in college (Hi, Ryzza.) and never attempted again, that’s why I have great respects for sofa giver, she has this never say die attitude (kinda like Pothead’s Hala Kari Syndrome). Oh well, they’re only straight until they’re gay, right?

Gave up a boyfriend, sofa giver did, for a 19 year old, who probably thinks kiss is an acronym that stands for Keep It Short and Simple (call center experience?). The problem with teenagers, every little form of kilig for them equates love. It’s not about the age, fine, but one qualification that’s mandatory before dating a kid is that she must know who Puma Ley-Ar is, or Okirampa, or can at least hum the jingle of Seiko Seiko Wallet. The gap does have an impact even if you’re both born in the 1980’s.

For a mere span of less than a month, they dated, or “hung out”. At least my 15 year old lasted for more than two months (FYI: I was 19, still was young and stupid, but I did love her. I gave her all those posters of Hanson that we have lying around the house ready to serve their purpose as pamparikit ng apoy, and she was very happy. She thought it was sweet… aww…) And Pothead’s pedophile relationship lasted for a year and two months (no, she was never sent to jail during that time). All the girl did was turn Sofa Giver’s brain into a den of chaos. Sleepless nights were now a routine, plus the freebie of constant psycho dramatic thinking.

The deal with straight people is that they can love you, but they can never fight for you. Well, there are exceptions to the rule of course, but more often than not, that’s the way it goes. They’re like nakikidawdaw sa mundo ng mga hindi tuwid because they can’t find what they are craving for from the opposite sex. They have expiration dates, they’re like only gay until this age, or until they get caught by their folks, or until they feel like building a family with the same sex is not a possibility. Bunch of users. Bunch of lion snakes. Thank God I’m a lesbian.

Fortunately, Sofa Giver is now coping, after finding out that the girl now has a new boyfriend, she actually is moving on. She now has a new “crush” (so elementary, what is this 2nd grade?) and unsurprisingly, the girl is also straight. My, oh my, good luck to you and your own version of masochism.

And as for me, I’ll get killed for this. Hey, at least I dint mention your name. This is what you get for thinking I’m a plagiarist. He-he.

Quilling for a Living

I don't read. I'm not affected by some disorder that paralyzes the ability of the brain to take in other people's words and decode them, I just plainly don't. Queer for someone who claims to be a "writer". Someone who's supposed to digest books like they're M 'n M's.

Being a "writer" was never a dream... the total reverse of my reality now assailant to every part that refuses to concatenate me with my "destiny". There was once a time when my subjects and my verbs don't agree. Once when my poetic license was forbidden issuance due to the mere fact that my sentences invoke decadence. An era when I thought the thesaurus was a book about dinosaurs, (the first thesaurus I saw had this font structure on the cover:
T H E S A U R U S, it read "The Saurus" to my imprudently puny brain, I even laughed at it with the taunt, "it should be The Sauruses".) Back when I didn't know how to spell "silhouette", when I didn't know how to pronounce "mirage". When all that functioned was my medulla oblongata and the two other parts of my brain were still deferred.

. Well, now that the world is enslaved by the hype of bitwise damnation, I am enticed by the clicking noise of the keyboard maneuvered faultlessly by my hands.

I can't locate the significant lever that provokes this urge to blot. I guess; the mere knowledge that I'm not under the influence of some best selling author impresses me as well. The unawareness of other people's works cancels the possibility of paradigming. I don't owe the depth of my vocabulary to Rand, or Kundera, or whoever else the literary world praises for their dilutedly contorted views. Situate me in a room filled with book consuming geeks and I'll conspicuously be the dumbest one out. But to give a tiny rat's ass about that wouldn't even cross my mind, for I don't need any of their approval to actually find and prove my worth.

I am to start my own movement, based on the principle now tagged as "Odrism". I've already came up with a mantra that goes, "Don't read if it'll make you bleed, you can still ink and not have to think." I'd also write a book for the irony of it all. I'll name it, "I love books; they serve as good paperweights." And since my friend noticed my impudent misdoing of inventing my own words or strangling existing words into ones that would fit my perversions, I will also come up with my own dictionary. I'll call it, "The Odrisaurus", and then someone with the same minute brain that I had back then would think that it's a newly discovered specie of dinosaur.

I am finding some sort of pleasure in doing something that grants me the privilege of fiddling with a persona that I never thought existed in me. If sense is non-existent in my works, then no blame should be thrown. If my words convey the silliest of meanings, then no criticism should avail. For I ain't really a writer, I'm just claiming to be one. I can take you to places even your dreams won't show you, but from then on it's gonna be your own friggin' business as to how you can get back. No such thing as restrictions, no such belief in norms, only the sole ability to surpass what's real and the shear innuendo of using a brain.

Catholiprism

two thousand years of culture forces you behind those bars
and you fidget on which to hide first amongst your bruises and your scars
you refuse to cope much further, keeping your faith against what's real
hoping someday you won't find out about the wounds that wouldn't heal

you're despising all that's different, hating all that the world denies
you conform to narrow your anger till they’re down to muffled sighs
searching for the perfect answers that your prayers couldn't give
parting from the killing sorrow that your conscience has retrieved

you have dignified the people who plead clean and who plead right
scuffled to achieve those morals and those values in one night
on your walls you have your angels spitting songs of how you've been
each impalement buries deeper along with every line they sing

clouded gravely by your thinking, consumed intently by your belief
every road that leads to nowhere breaks you down to fake relief
what's the certainty of living when every part of you has died?
have you considered if the life you embellished was maybe too good to survive?

if your gods could offer heaven then your hell must not exist
you're at the mercy of a wisdom brought about by chronic bliss
in submission to the indecency of the holiness you've made
you've delivered yourself to the nothingness of a soul you've just betrayed

Burden or Bliss

I think, I think too much. It's not a positive thing. There are times (gazillions of times) when I just wish that my brain is controlled by a switch that I can turn on and off every time I need a good night's sleep or need to do something more productive than to lurk in a gloomy corner and emote on every thought that my mind attaches itself to.

I quiver when people ask me, "What are you thinking?" Are you kidding me? I mean, really… a couple hundred lifetimes ain't enough for me to declare my thoughts at one specific moment. Anyone who can do that is a paramecium. I try to refrain from responding "nothing" because it's a total insult upon oneself. You got a brain that processes nothing, might as well just sell it.

I am searching for the perfect cure for uber analysis, steadfast rationalization, and subconscious picturesque capturing, so far there's none. I'm thinking about giving up on the close-to-impossible mission, but I'm still on the process of thinking about thinking of giving up on thinking about it at this time.

On the sidebar of all these, but my precedence for now, I am also dealing with being constantly hounded by the past and unswervingly being daunted by the future. I am an anxious person who's nostalgic. I am anxiotalgic.

There's this conjectural line from Mr. Ripley that goes something like, "Don't you wish you could put your past in a suitcase, put it in the basement, lock the door, and lose the key?" Yeh, a multitude of people have probably tried that, it doesn't eternally work. Unless the door on that basement is made of imperishable material, there would always be a means of knocking that door down and unleashing all that's hidden behind it. Or that conventional thing that everyone struggles to do yet only those with pragmatic heads come out as victors, "moving on" and uhm... "letting go". Take it from Magnolia, there's just no way that the past would ever be done with you. That friggin' past doesn't forget, there would always be this whirlwind that would twisterize you back to square one no matter how far along in that puzzle board you already are.

Pothead has some thoughts about the future, after I asked her if it is proper to give up on something in the present just because you fear that it would not work the way you want it to in the future. She said, "You're bullshit!! You're so fucking full of bullshit!!" Then she stood in the way of a raging truck and got herself shattered into pieces. I stood there wide-eyed with my mouth open, and then I approached her dismantled body parts slowly and asked, "Are you okay?"

No, here's what really happened.

I asked her that. Then she replied… with a question. "Why are you gonna base your decisions on something that you have no idea about?"

"Well, maybe I do have an idea… sort of… kinda…"

"Still," she interjected,"it's stupid to give up on something now just because you're afraid of what's gonna happen in the future. It's not right. It wouldn't feel right."

For someone who dutifully does the wrong things for the right reasons, I incessantly need a reminder of that.

"Is that why you still haven't given up on --"

"Yes." She said with conviction. "The future is composed of the consequences of the choices you've made in the present."

Relinquishing something because you fear that in the future you wouldn't have it any longer is plain balderdash. That's contriving your own shortcut to the future.

"We should learn to bask in the moment", Pothead continued. "Live it one day at a time."

No rushing? Taking pleasure in the details? Anything less surreal?

"Yeh, like for now this is all we need," I took a puff on my cig. "A couple of smokes, a couple of scrambles. You and me and Manuel L. Quezon."

"We both should just stop thinking, really, that's all we need for now."

If only it is possible. A momentary shortage in the brain would definitely be appreciated. To have that second, make it a minute or two, of not thinking. Not having to go through the tedious process of scrutinizing every random goddamned thought that crosses the head. A fleeting instance of being blank. How heavenly it must be to be an imbecile.

Is it really wrong to rationalize on things? Should everything be accepted as the bare bullshit that the world present these things to be?

There is no solution to all these. If it requires thinking and thinking again about the possible ways out, the putrid thinking process just would never end. This is a total rip-off – "I have to accept this. This is my gift, my curse. If only it could also make me climb walls and swing from one building to another."

Most of us didn't really ask for a brain that we ourselves cannot control and maneuver. It is ungrateful to actually condemn acquiring a working one. Yet sometimes I wish it isn't much to ask to own one that doesn't toil overtime. The burden of wit or the bliss of ignorance? Those with the most answers are also those with the most questions. No wonder I still don't have an answer as to why I am paining to experience the latter.

The Music Played

Aling Mary, An Urban Legend (03-25-07)
by Audrey De Castro on Thursday, December 3, 2009 at 11:33am

I just got rid of my stupid ring back tone, Boom Tarat Tarat, last week. I had to call Globe to know how to do it. Now I know why my load decreases for no good reason every now and then, it was because of that annoying ring back crap. It was my sister’s doing, she received that message from 2331 saying that those ring back tunes can be downloaded for free and so anything with the word FREE seemed appealing to us. I don’t know why we chose to download Boom Tarat Tarat amongst all the other less crappy tunes, maybe the whole idea is to be dumbest when the situation asks it.

Novelty songs just keep on coming, don’t they? I thought the horror ended when the Sex Bomb Girls left Eat Bulaga but no, they just kept on swarming everywhere. I guess the life span of such songs don’t rely on who’s doing the dimwitted choreography. Somebody kill Lito Camo… puhleassse…

I remember this anecdote by my brother’s friend, Bato (no, he’s not into drugs), about his mother who seemed to be so attached to that Boom Tarat Tarat jingle. Only she has her own version. It goes like PUNG! TARARARARAT! PUNG! TARARARARAT! TARARARARAT! TARARARARAT! PUNG! PUNG! PUNG! I see the deal with those dump songs is that they register in your head, but not completely. Like there was this one time when I was unconsciously singing a Sponge Cola song and I was like, “Wag kang bibitiw, bakla. Wag kang bibitiw, bakla…” and I realized that the song doesn’t really go that way. The Curse of the Subconscious. Even if you hate a certain song with all your soul and being, there’s this anomalous way of you tending to get them absorbed even faster than the songs that you like.

So back to Bato’s mother, Aling Mary, she probably watches Wowowee every single goddamned day of her adult life that the jingle comes out of her mouth as normal as her breathing does. Bato said that no matter what his mother is doing she’s always either humming or singing that song out loud. She came with her own ring back tone. Like when she’s doing the dishes, “Pung! Tararararat!”, feeding the love birds, “Pung! Tararararat!”, or just calling their dog, “Spaaarkyyy! Pung! Tararararat!” It was alarming, reckons Bato. I think he’s actually glad that he no longer has a father, because they all sleep in the same room and times could get horny.

Then one night, my sister and I were watching Supernatural on Studio 23, a series about two brothers fighting evil in all its form and weirdness, and the “enemy” that the characters needed to battle in that episode was Bloody Mary. Urban Legend has it that if you say her name three times in front of a mirror, she would come out of that mirror and scratch your eyes off. I haven’t really tried it because I’m so much of a chickenshit. And I turned to my sister, who also knows about Aling Mary’s Wowowee jingle fixation, and thought instead of saying Bloody Mary why don’t we try saying Aling Mary’s name for three times in front of the mirror.

My sister cringed, “Ayoko nga baka patayin nya tayo kakakanta nya ng Pung Tararararat.”
And I thought, “Hell yeh, that is practically scarier than getting your eyes ripped off.”

Anyway, there’s no point to this story, I just wanted to share. He-he.

The Thick Sense

November sucks. I’ve hated this month ever since the day I realized what fear of the dark elements is all about. Every time it’s nearing, the local channels (we don’t have cable… so sad… so limited...) go frantic about showing every bit of scary movie they could lay their hands on, from the corniest Tagalog wannabe horror movies to the newest Japanese long-haired, anemic freaks of nature fad. I’ve never enjoyed watching horror flicks so I don’t know why I keep on watching them. There must be something about sleepless nights and a throbbing heart that keeps, not just me, but just about everyone else from wanting more and more of these neurotic, fictional creepers.
I can hardly remember why I was so scared of Jason Voorhees, Freddie Krueger, and Michael Myers when I was a kid. Maybe I just didn’t understand why gore or bloodlust makes them go all bonkers and chase after people to cut open their torsos and feast on their intestines while amputating both upper and lower extremities and dissecting every layer of the brain after the head has been decapitated and ripped apart by using purely the simplest of machineries and barest of their hands. Well now, I do. And the pattern on horror movies hasn’t changed over the years. Still the same thirst for blood, hunger for flesh spilling on the floor, and the urge to see some struggling B-class actress strip down to merely two pieces of clothing or succumb to a boob exposure in order to boost their acting stratum as they sexily die in the end with not only their skulls split apart but also their legs. I do comprehend how it worked for Jennifer Love Hewitt, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Elisha Cuthbert, Paris Hilton, or even Neve Campbell before, but I certainly don’t grasp how it worked for Jamie Lee Curtis at all, cos like 30 years ago she looks exactly the same. Or worse, a 50-year old looking 20-year old, what’s up with that?

I do get scared easily so I’m not exactly a reliable source if someone’s to ask which scary movie is the scariest amongst them all. And everyone has their own opinion and own level of wussiness so, it is totally subjective. But I did ask a few people about which horror movies petrified them the most just to see if my list of scary movies does make sense or if it’s just me being stupid and getting scared by these films for no apparent reason. And the top three on the list as of the present, based on limited resources, are:

1) The Sixth Sense 2) The Blair Witch Project 3) The Skeleton Key

Hmm… so my own list does make sense. I have a few people disagree with having The Sixth Sense as the scariest movie of all time because some people actually didn’t get scared during and after watching the psychological thriller. Talk about lack of imagination and shallow comprehension. I can’t believe why people get more scared by watching those insipid, hirsute, bone-wrecked weirdoids that kill non-relevant people for very superficial reasons. Like in The Ring (don’t know why Hollywood even try to make their own version of this), Samara (Sadako) killed people for watching a video tape that she obviously didn’t make and distribute. The clairvoyant son there, who calls his mother by her name, sues his mom for even trying to solve the mystery behind Samara’s death and helping salvage her remains from the well. Son goes like: “Don’t you understand, Rachel? She never sleeps.” What the fuck is wrong with that little bitch? What is she a Starbuck’s fanatic? They said she just wants her story told, so why kill the people who have seen her video tape when these people can pass on her story by means of word-of-mouth? And the video tape doesn’t even tell a story at all so what is there to tell anyway? If she truly wants her story to be told then she should’ve just left a diary instead or hired someone to write her autobiography. (Teka, baket ba ko nakekelam? Kanya kanyang trip lang yan, di ba? One week lang naman akong di pinatulog ni Sadako ahahaha.)

The Ring Series came out with such a bang that all the other Japanese horror movies were patronized as highly as Thalia was patronized in her Marimar telenovela. Then came other movies with the same petty reason for getting people massacred such as The Grudge, The Phone, The Eye, The Notebook… oh, wait… not The Notebook , that’s a love story… sorry… it’s just that the idea of Ryan Gossling starring in a love flick is scary enough. And then, there’s also The Doll Master, Child’s Play dumps shit on this one. There’s no scarier doll than Chucky, not in a million years. Chucky rules, he doesn’t get attached, he can do voodoo, and he can make babies too, and you can’t kill him just by poking him in the eyes and getting his head detached from his body.

Enough about the Japanese, let’s go lower down the ogrish shelves. There were scary movies that used a colossal amount of gore in order to haul up fear and maybe disgust from unsuspecting people, who normally went out of the house not carrying barf bags in their pockets. Some of those that I wouldn’t want to lay my eyes on again due to squeamish rationale are: Dead Alive, Day of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, House on Haunted Hill, The Ghost Ship, 13 Ghosts, Mad House, Amityville Horror, The Wish Master, Rumplestiltskin, The Leprechaun Series, Resident Evil Part 1 (but I love Resident Evil: Apocalypse, I don’t care how gross the zombies in that movie were, Jill Valentine is sooooo hot), Saw 1&2, and many others that showcase the inner part of the human body being eaten or grated by another human being, ex-human being, or by a being that didn’t come from this side of the universe. And also there’s this gruesome movie entitled The Dentist, I don’t know if anyone else has seen it, we just borrowed it from an old video rental place cos we got curious. It friggingly is stomach-turning even from the start of the show. Everything was all white then there’s this guy on the dental chair in the middle of the room and when the dentist went to him and used the ruddy drill on wherever parts of his teeth, blood squirted from all over his mouth, and then to his face, and then to the dentist, and then to the entire room, and then my cousin went screaming, “Turn it off! Turn it off!” And that was all that we saw of that very bloody movie. I’m still curious though, but I don’t think my stomach can handle watching that cornstarch flick anytime in this lifetime or even in the next one.

Also, there were horror films that I asininely watched in the big screen forgetting that I’m one of them wussiest people on this planet. One of those was Resident Evil Part 1; I was already inside the movie house – alone – when I remembered that it was a movie about zombies. Holy Moron. I wanted to go out but I was so scared I might bump into a zombie on my way out so I had to wait till the movie was finished and all the lights had been turned on. And then, another movie that Pothead and I watched was The Exorcism of Emily Rose, we got through that movie with our eyes half-opened, our feet up, soft drink cup on the left ear, and KFC go-go’s on the right. I hate the fact that movie house people assume that everyone watching their movies are hard of hearing. They should distribute ear plugs on the way in, that way we’d have both hands functional for eating purposes. Another was Silent Hill, I watched it with my sister, who’s just as brave as I am ha-ha, and I have the same complaint: TOO LOUD!!! I CAN”T THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS!!! The others I remember seeing were not really scary (naks naman… courageous) but were a pure waste of, and some of those are: The Haunting, The Exorcist: Director’s Cut, White Noise, The Fog (Tom Welling will forever be Superman, and I’m disappointed that he didn’t have super powers here, just as I’m disappointed every time Sarah Michelle Gellar doesn’t play Buffy.), and Pulse (a really bad attempt at propagating against technology). And I want to swear that I will never again watch another scary movie in the big screens, but there will always come a time when I’ll forget how much of a chicken I am and even dare to watch a horror film in the expensive seats of I-max.

Now, this is a very long entry and yet I still haven’t defended why The Sixth Sense, The Blair Witch Project, and The Skeleton Key are in the top three. It would seem pointless anyway, for those who have grasped the real essence of these movies; they already know what I’m talking about. But I guess for those who aren’t thinking in the same sphere as we are, hopelessly haunted by pale freaks, who have trouble walking and have hair all over their face, spend a night in front of a mirror, turn off all the lights – don’t bother bringing a candle, and just as you feel a warm breath gliding behind your ear and you hear some stifled cries, Mama Cecile and Papa Justify will then be the ones to tell you why.

A Couple of Kicks, A Packet of Bubus

It wasn't so long ago when I started to attach my self to a certain chat room called lezpinay. Not so surprising that I immediately got hooked to it. I am not so into meeting the different genres or species of people that walk this earth, but with so little option of not encountering them every now and then, it's better that I get to mingle with them without the freaky necessity of having to look them in the eye as I sense their neurons crash and burn into oblivion.
The whole lot of creatures that I've met here gives me both the realization of how endowed my life is and how docile it can considerably be compared to those currently subscribed to the overwhelming era of youth.

I've taken time to recall those beings who have contributed to the decency of my existence and those who I taxonomize to the bewildering depot of imbecility and utter moronity.

Off I go:

acerrrr - 7:50 AM I logged in, she was there, 1:40 I came back, she was still there, at about 10:30 that night... I was no longer surprised. I conclude therefore, chatting is her life.

agoraphobia - I'm not so proud to divulge my encounter with her. I stupidly asked her if she's afraid of spider-man (having the term arachnophobia in my mind); only after banging my head on pure concrete did I remember that agoraphobia means fear of wide spaces. Tsk... Should've asked if she was living in a coffin instead.

animony - there are things in this world that just don't make sense, people like her should be blamed for them.

aryt - I thought her nick was tyra spelled backwards... shesh... it was just alright spelled in vain.

audrelorde - one of the little sensible chatter who barely goes online. Rare pick, usually ignores you. Unless you're ready to engross yourself into a brain busting session, keep your distance. Or hold a dictionary in your hand, it could help.

bondbabe - met her under the nick lysander, apparently she's played hermia in a grade school play. I just hate that her nick reminds me of denise richards (she was once asked how it is to play someone smart and she actually tried to answer it).

boobastank - if I were to mar hoobastank's name I'd refer to them as hoobastink. But since boobastank's boobs are probably bigger than her brains, this became the end result.

bystander - present but currently unattached, in Tagalog "tambay". Self-proclaimed introvert, haven't been seein' her in the chat room lately, guess she's too caught up in her own little world.

cho_chang - has never read a Potter book. I believe the nick appealed to her for reasons that she is Chinese... and what's with the underscore?!! (Hmm... the downsides of youth...). Also a self-proclaimed Dishwalla fan but does not know a single line from Counting Blue Cars.

chugger - her identity has been deemed classified. This is her incognito self incognito.
d^reason - met boobastank?

femme 'fatal - it must really be deadly to have an IQ so low.

freawaru - boobastank's sister. Hah! Two in the family, it's a gay world after all.

hgrg - she macked me, I complied. Consider the word pervert and raise it to a thousand, that's her.

honda_vios - Toyota has heard news of this, your subpoena is on its way.

horned_one - nick seemed promising, but after the predictable usage of the "annoying startup line" (a.k.a. asl), I was once again proven wrong.

huffergurl - thou art thus. Replies with a traumatic "yeah?". Believes she is the only person in the world who knows that huffergurl is a ski brand. Duhhh...

jupit3r - I've never met a person this slow; all the moons around her probably caused such lunacy.

meeh - goat fixated onomatopoeia?

minnie_meeh - kid fixated onomatopoeia... hahaha!!! This must be meeh sinking a notch lower. God, I didn't think that was possible, how can somebody stoop that low?

makeMEreal - I asked her if she'd be an animal what would she be, she replied "a dolphin maybe". I'm a little disappointed, I was expecting her to say a unicorn cos it wouldn't be so far from what she thinks she is right now,something that doesn't exist.

oTiStIk_ako - need I say more?

ownmyown - when I first laid eyes on her nick I thought it was a typo error, but the consistency implied that no, she's not pertaining to that Les Miserables song. In Tagalog her nick would be, "akin ang akin"... oohhh... how possessive.

rockchick - (became an ex) barely a few of us left on the path to greatness. Kudos to your chosen genre of music and never back down on the fight to extinguishing the burning flames of mainstreamity.

saidsadly - a year less than a decade ago, we've met and bonded, and entered an ultra-neurotic society called GINGY (pronounced the way it's spelled), up until now the amount of nightmares flooding in due to the experience is unfathomable.

stucked - how caught up in the past are you? stucked?

stupid_me - your admittance to the truth moves me.

zerious - hmm... I wonder how you spell words when you're not.

[twisted]- not a zafra fan... just when you think the world's already down the pits, people as such reminds you that it could still plunge down much deeper.

Pausing for a moment, I need a breather. I guess I didn't know what I was asking for when I started this diss-and-praise-list... one of the prices to pay for exploring the abysmally confused realm of lezpinay.

The Jerassic Era

She got smitten… AGAIN. But then, I thought, what’s new? Maybe it was a bad idea all along. We never learn. Never EVER try to save someone who’s not asking for help. Instill that in the brain for morale’s sake. And yet we’re still trying to save her from the trap we ourselves laid down for her to fall into. Free falling, as she often is. Will she catch her? Will she call? She wouldn’t even return her text messages. Okay, fine, she doesn’t have her own cellular phone. But there are ways, if will is there.
She didn’t even ask a single dull question about her. She didn’t even mention her name, not when everyone around was sort of pushing the idea of her existence into her head. Was she too preoccupied with laughing at my stupidest punch lines? Or too absorbed by the cheap thrill she gets every time she slapped me on the arm or gave me a pinch on my side that she forgot all about her existence, her persistence? Did she mean to hold my hand? Or was the alley just too dark and abandoned that she felt the need to hold onto something thermal? But those were their streets we sauntered back and forth in search for ice and smokes and coffee, why the hell would she feel daunted meandering a familiar path. Was I the one who held her hand first? I don’t remember the consistency of events but the point is she didn’t let go.

I woke up with her next to me. Actually, “woke up” is technically false because I really wasn’t able to sleep even for a second. Her scent and the smell of stale beer kept me awake, aside from the unvarying movements she made. She didn’t have to stay in the same bed; there was another empty bed perpendicular to ours. Do us both a favor and move out, I thought. But she chose to stay. I chose to daydream.

I left the sheets first. No interaction happened after that. Along with the alcohol came the events. No hangover from either the alcohol or the events dwelled after 11 o’clock in the morning. And so this means we’re moving on.

Yet she’s in my head, almost all the time in my fucking head. So that’s how it feels. Good one, cosmos, I get your point, my lesson learned. I know I’ve done the same thing over and over for different people, leaving questions in exchange for the passion that was too confusing to handle.

Maybe she didn’t even think of it that way. Maybe I assumed too much. Maybe I…

I got smitten… AGAIN. But then, I laugh at myself, what’s new? It was a bad idea all along. For she’s another hard-to-pin-down-cloud that puts me on a chase. Another fair muse that encourages me to dream. To dream of wasted sunsets and of fallen stars. Of sugarcoated words that would never be defined – could never be defined as long as I can’t make her mine. And it’s pointless to dream of things you can’t deal with and make happen while you’re awake. So, with this I’m convincing myself, I’m more for planning not making dreams. I want to think of things I can actually achieve, not conjure up ideas for some alternate reality. And that’s probably all she’ll ever be, someone heartbreakingly outlying and far a field from everything that’s real to me.
Evolove. I was telling Straight Kabuki about this certain pattern of falling in love, being in love, and getting out of love last Monday night. I’m trying to pretend to be a relationship guru as though I’ve experienced everything there is to experience in the demented world of EVOLOVE. Well, who would she prefer, a free practicing fake guru or a totally expensive shrink? She didn’t have much choice and she knew that.
And so, there’s this word-illustration, I showed her:

BRIDGE OF HATE
MALIGNANT EVOLOVE ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ APATHY / INDIFFERENCE

I told her, you’re a hopeless case. Imagine, she’s still wishing or hoping or praying that after 25 years she would still end up with Boy Abnoy. Hopeless is she not? I felt like skewering her brains with banana cue stick and feeding ‘em to the dogs. But we weren’t ready for anything like something you see on Hannibal or the Saw series. So, I just used Pothead’s formularization, to get over the fucking feeling called love; you must hate the object of affection up to the extent where you can hate no more. And tested by the reigning Queen of Pathetiqueness (two years of basking, mon, you will forever wear the crown), it truly does work.

But how to do that really? Hate the one you love. Replace an uber strong feeling with its complete opposite. I used to say, Hate is a stronger feeling, it’s more precious than Love. And no one deserves my Hate; no one deserves anything that special. But it is the cure. It is the antidote. Love is poison. Drink Hate and cross the bridge. Cross the bridge and get to Apathy or Indifference. When you finally reach that point, even when someone tells you, “Hoy alam mo ba ung ex mo naputulan ng kamay?” You’ll go like, “Ows talaga?” Continue with what you’re doing before you’ve been interrupted and not even ask, “Which hand?”

It is okay to go, “Give me my money back! Give me my money back, you b*tch! I want my money back! And don’t forget to give me back my black T-shirt!” – (Song for the Dumped, Ben Folds Five) at first. It is initial reaction. No one’s that nice. Or if someone is, she shouldn’t be. Then breed the Hate, let it grow.

Let it grow as big as your Pride is. If it wouldn’t by itself, then make it. These are your two best weaponries. Hate is your spear, Pride is your shield. There’s this whole Spartan thing going over me because I just saw 300 and I really liked it haha. Anyway, the entire pampering of Hate process would really come in handy if you have an overly reliable tolerant friend like Pothead. Because she’ll tolerate anything from combing the hair of an ex until the ex feels goddess-like with her very long hair to pissing in a plastic bag inside a bus. Very supportive, Pothead is.

Going back to Straight Kabuki, well it’s only been what? 3 months? And they spent like 6 decades together. It’s normal to still feel that way. Be in denial. Hope for the best. Want what’s surreal. Try to convince yourself that there is such a thing called FATE and that what’s meant to happen will happen eventually. I do that last part every now and then still. Jeez.

A friend of mine, JDC, left me some precious lines less than a year ago, they go like, “No one knows how much they got until it’s gone. Eventually she’ll realize your worth and she’ll know what she’s lost. When that happens she’ll come back or try to. Anyway, they all do.”

So, Straight Kabuki, hear me now, “Boy Abnoy does not see yet how much he had. Eventually he’ll realize your worth and know what he’s lost. When that happens he’ll come scuffling back into your life or try to, because every sad-a** loser with sad-ass intentions will always do. It’s just up to you if you want to put up with b*llsh*t all over again.”
Culture shock. I thought I have an open mind for just about anything. I guess the openness does not include anything that concerns gore, violence, or death threats.

The very essence of being in a woman-to-woman relationship is to shun out the abhorring attributes of the male specie. Their arrogance, double standard views, machismo, and the putrid idea that they are the dominant gender. And yet, I often see or hear about women practically turning into them, acting like undomesticated creatures, hurting the ones they’re with physically.

But it’s not going to happen without the permission of the other person, the violence that is. So, when one realizes that her partner is capable of doing something so inhumane, why still stay in the relationship? Because of LOVE? F*ck Love. No one, in her right mind, who really loves a person, would ever hurt the one she claims to love in whatever way, at least, not intentionally.

I don’t get it. Can some people really be THAT insecure?

Pothead told me, “One thing we have in common: Our ex’s would rather be with orcs than bask in near perfection.”

Are we back to the Stone Age? When, although life was so simple, the manner of humans isn’t an inch away from that of a savage beast. Back then, when a male wants a partner, he’d just look for a female pleasurable to his eyes, hit her smack in the head with his club, drag her back to his cave, and rape her.

Then when they get hungry they just go out and eat a mammoth or a saber-toothed tiger for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Have we not evolved at all? Perhaps some of us never really did. Maybe there is more than just one missing link. And that link will never ever be found for it exists in the part that cannot be seen by the naked eye… under the sleeves of battered women or on the arteries of their tattered hearts.