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?!”