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.