Most of the time, people are just walking blobs of suspicious meat to me–physically, that is. The way I deal with suspicious stuff is that I tend to avoid direct contact as much as possible.This gives me a neutral feeling to people in general. I don’t like or hate complete strangers because it takes some level of familiarity to feel either or that. Or you know, a trigger (like how spitting outside the window of a moving bus would instantly make me dislike you. The feeling escalates to pure hatred if I can feel drops of your disgusting mucus hitting my skin…ugh, let’s not get into that horrid experience again).

However when it comes to attractiveness, I find first glances adequate to form an opinion. Yes, I’m that shallow.  But then everyone is. The first time I look at a person I imagine myself as the ultimate androgyne and judge whether he/she’s: a.) dateable b.) undateable. Yes again, I’m that shallow.

Obviously, datability is as subjective as any preference on this planet (like food, religion, tv show, pooping practices, etc.).  Someone I would classify as dateable might have a face that triggers your vomiting center to go on projectile mode. Personally, the only things that would put me on that mode are those gross coprophilic videos and of course body mutilation. I’ve never really met person whose face could make me want to vomit at first glance. Well, yet.

Now to talk about specifics:


Usually, I tend to be attracted to tall people. That’s because I am really short. I stand at only 5’2″ and wish I’m at least 2 inches taller. People always have that tendency to desire what they don’t have and I’m no different. If you’re a guy and at least 5’8″ or a girl and at 5’6″ up I already consider you tall. Being short doesn’t automatically make a person unattractive though. I’ve met guys who stand at only 5’3″ who I can say have really handsome faces and who are actually branded “playboys”. I don’t think it’s just the face though. It has a lot to do with confidence. But that is not really a “physical” category, so next stuff…


I am pretty overweight. My BMI is actually 24.92 but that’s just my own self-denial of not actually rounding it off to 25. I am not a bodybuilder or an athlete so you could tell I have a lot of  adipose tissue cushioning my internal organs. And compared to people surrounding me, I am actually fat. Most of them are actually on the thin side, fucking petite Asians. But then like most people I am actually really really vain that is why I am talking about myself when I should be talking about my own preferences. To cut it short, I don’t care what weight a person has as long as he doesn’t look like he’d just drop-dead if he becomes any thinner or he’d have a heart attack the next time he laughs. It’s that simple.


I’ve been attracted to all ranges of skin color from white to black to poop-skinned. As long as it’s healthy-looking, then yes I could possibly find you attractive. I’ve never been attracted to a cyanotic person before. I think Edward Scissorhands is absolutely dateable though. I’ve been attracted to Michael Jackson. And we all know his skin color is not that healthy-looking. So yes, I am contradicting myself. This is getting worse, isn’t it?


If you have one nose with two holes, two eyes, two eyebrows, one mouth, visible teeth, and one chin then I don’t think why I can’t be attracted. Unless of course one or more of those is grossly disproportionate with the others. Like, a nose that covers half the midsection of your face gets too in the way before the chance to get attracted starts. Same goes with a mouth that expands almost one-third of your whole face. I’ve seen mouths that big. But maybe it’s just the impression I get because the guy talks too much, opening his mouth too often and too wide he almost looked like he has plans to eat me. And oh, about ears? I don’t care if you have one or two or three. Four would just be too many and zero might prove to be a trouble. I don’t know any sign language other than pointing two fingers inside my mouth. Yes, it means eating–food or otherwise.


Those practically sum up the things I look for physically to judge a person’s attractiveness. As you can see, my preferences are pretty achievable. You can even call it boring. Wanting to only date people with celebrity looks means you have to step up and look like that yourself which is kind of high pressure if not downright impossible. I like normal-looking people. Well, in general. I tend to like oddness in people though, especially potential friends and partners. Interesting is better than perfect any day. And besides, who would want to date someone perfect?  You’d feel so inadequate all the time next to that person. I know I would. But then again perfect, like anything else, is purely subjective. Your definition of perfect is not the same as mine so you would probably not agree if I say I am dating a perfect man. He is perfect for me though. It’s all in what you call your compatibility. I guess, really, that’s all that matters when it comes to that so-called “perfection”.

This is what perfection looks like. But of course you're not allowed to see it.

This is what perfection looks like. But of course you’re not allowed to see it.

DISCLAIMER: When it comes to attractiveness, guidelines have the equivalence of excreta basing on truth value. Attraction is a game which breaks its own rules more often than not. Personally, I’d date anyone who has an awesome personality. Fuck pulchritude! Although I wouldn’t say no to a cute interesting person, no. Not in the very least.




Jon Hunter of Pastramibasket made sunfrying Mr. McPotato right up there. I know, he’s awesome. Also, it’s the Pastramiversary last Tuesday, March 25. I missed it (and the chance to know how I’d look like pastramified) because I’m an awful blogger who would rather wipe poop than blog. But hey, it’s not too late to greet this awesome cartoonist a bloggy birthday. Shouldn’t be too late…I still have to do it right now. ;)


Looks like I’m writing a blog entry again. See, a lot of things have been on my mind lately. Maybe they’re the reason I can’t sleep well at night. Or maybe it’s the fact that my sleep pattern has been fucked up because of the shitty schedule I keep as a shift worker. Now I’m on my morning shift and two days after I’m graveyard and the day after that I’m going to be on P.M shift. Yes, I know it sucks. Whoever has the shots in making our schedule should seriously be lobotomised. For someone who’s already had a difficult time sleeping even before her schedule was fucked up beyond her control (okay, almost all control) this is seriously taking my sleeping hours away from me. The skin around my eyes are getting darker, I’m getting grumpier, body always feels weak, and I’m eating more.

That should be enough detail for a genius like Sherlock Holmes or someone who has a serious grudge to destroy my life. Now, to talk about stuff.


Anyway, I think I want to talk about drugs. Get this clear: I am not into drugs. I abhor drugs. No, I shouldn’t. I abhor drug abuse though. I detest it with all the neurons responsible for repulsion. I am not into romanticising it or whatever shit you say that is one form or another of “drugs is cool”. It’s worse than having to eat poop with worms sticking out of it. I also rather believe that once you abused it, you’re always gonna look for it.  Once a druggie, always a druggie. Burn me for it. See if I care. Don’t give me your people are complex bullshit. People are only complex because we don’t what to believe things that are right in front of our eyes. Okay maybe I don’t believe that enough but that’s what I want to believe right now. Sometimes we can be self-contradictory and there’s perfectly nothing wrong with that. Or maybe everything ha ha. Anyway that’s what one idiotic druggie would have me believed, you know being always a druggie. He’s been the cause of all kinds of shit my family had to experience. Really, I just wish he would die. Yes, that’s a heartless cold thing to say. I don’t think he will ever get better. I’m giving up hope on him—maybe I don’t love him enough? Maybe I’m the one so quick to judge and condemn as if I’m this ultra clean person with no poop stains on her frock. First, I don’t wear frocks. Second, I am poop-skinned so basically I’m stained all over. Heartless bitch? Well…


I hate this one local actor. Hate him enough to make me forget that my Facebook timeline should be suitable for work. I know I know this is going to be shallow, hating celebrities crap. Don’t read then. Anyway I abhor him and all his hypocrisy. His latest blunder is being a jerk. I’ve always sensed this jerk quality but recently he’s been such a complete idiot to actually make it so obvious. Well, he’s being a jerk to this girl onstage—a girl who looks like the actress they paired him up with and who made him popular in the first place. This girl won in a look-a-like contest or something. But instead of being a gentleman, or at least a decent human, he’d been a total dick to her, so much that the girl was speechless and looked like she was about to cry onstage. I hope someone would slash open his guts. Yes, I’m really that mean. I’m rather a bit, just a teeny bit satisfied because he received a huge backlash from the Filipino community. I hope his career rots. What can he offer anyway? He only looks good…if you have this certain set of eyes. He can’t act or sing or dance or be decent. He’s basically a talentless idiot who sucked dick on his way to the top. Yes, I’m saying he’s a cocksucker. Literally. And his name is Xian Lim.

I hate mean people. Especially those who humiliate someone publicly. But I’m actually being mean here too so what I’m saying is I’m a hypocrite. Just like everyone else. Deal with it.


Everyone has a choice. Do they? Don’t they? Do you have a choice on being an addict? Sure you had a choice to pick up that first joint or not. But what if someone has you bound so that the only thing you can move is your eyebrows, then injects a many-times-used needle up that big squiggly vein in your arm. Do you still have a choice in that then? See, I want to understand if everyone really has a choice in everything. I guess not? Because if that’s the case then we’d probably be gods. So yes I admit that’s a stupid thing to wonder about. Wrong stupid question. Let’s make it less stupid then: what are the things in which we have a choice on? I don’t know the specifics but what I know is this: A LOT.

We have a say on a lot of things. So you whining about how your life sucks is someone’s fault is a complete fat lie and you know it. Don’t blame your dysfunctional family for succumbing into drugs. Don’t blame the boyfriend who broke your heart for your morbid obesity. Don’t blame your annoying co-workers for the pathetic excuse that you call your work. Don’t blame the world because there’s no one beside you now to support you after you’ve pushed them all away because you hated yourself. And in fact you still do.

So who should you blame then? Yourself? Fuck no.

Why is there always a need for blame? Just ditch it. Stop the blame game and start the clean-up game. Playing the clean-up game starts with realizing everything that sucks in your life right now has always been something that you have control of. It may be because of you that it all started in the first place. Yeah yeah that sucks, cry about it if you have to, but don’t fucking cry too long–too long to realize that since you had much control to start it, the same control is in your hands to change it. Want a less shitty life? Then learn to wipe your own ass.

But what do I know, right?


All people are hypocrites. So it really strikes me as funny, if not downright idiotic, how one person could call another person a hypocrite in such a self-righteous manner–as if one isn’t capable of such two-facedness.

The most rampant example I see of this is between a bully and his supposed to be victim. The bully goes on doing his thing–manipulation, bribery, blackmail, hiring goonies or whatgives–to get what he wants from his victims And it goes on unless the victim stands up and fight for himself.

Or he could always be a victim for life.

Supposed he takes the other direction though and actually stand up for himself. The underdog fighting back. Stuff of great drama–especially if the bully is somewhat a big name in the circle both parties are involved in. More often than not, the underdog will gain a following since everybody just loves to root for the underdog, don’t we? This is based on the inferiority complex each of us keep like an extra body part. We all relate to the underdog because we think the world has been unfair to us in one way or another.

What happens is that these supporters of the underdog will keep growing until they actually seem strong enough to tackle the bully, pin him down to the floor and break his knee joints so that he could never stand up again.

Yes, that’s how it usually goes. It’s like the world is turned upside down and now the bully is the one who is victimized.

I’m all out for calling out bullies for whatever bullshit it is they do. But then there is a very thin line that separates being the victim and being the bully.

A. Very. Thin. Line.

That thin line actually goes with everything. News Flash: this isn’t a world of black and white. This is a world of vast complexities where we all still use labels even if we know they’re just plain absurd. A world where you can’t tell when you stopped being a friend and start being a lover, from joking to being mean, from putting things right to downright being cruel, from being cute to being annoying, from being a hypocrite police to being the hypocrite yourself.

Yes, I do think everything is a fucking joke.

It doesn’t mean people stop being hurt though.

We’re all really made of mushy stuff underneath our tough exteriors. We’re all still kids no matter if you’re four or you’re forty. We’re all still kids who just wanted to be acknowledged and praised and liked and loved.

But we are all still kids…who are selfish and only think of our own needs first and foremost. We are all still kids who don’t understand that other people want the same stuff as we do and maybe, just maybe, we could all get what we want if we also know how to give.

But we are all still kids and our needs ALWAYS have to come first. Fuck compromise. Fuck give and take. I am right. And I should get what I want.

Ah, people. Everything is a fucking joke between us. Screwed up and needy and selfish and sleazeballs and yet still so deserving of love.

A fucking joke, that’s what we are.

Everyday I risk being exposed to poop, pee, puke, blood, and the gruesome task of greeting and being nice to people.

I know. Gross.

This was also from six months of hibernation, being content and secure in the confines of my own room and home-cooked meals. At that time, I was also broke so being secure is a complete fat lie. Money is everything. Those home-cooked meals also fattened me up. I am supposed to aim for bikini bridges and starve myself!!! Ugh you should see my fat butt. No you shouldn’t–wtf? But yes, I must conclude unemployment is really bad.

Now though I meet tons of people everyday again. And I’m actually so good at being nice to everyone. Also, one of the people I was nice to died yesterday. Not that I’m saying it’s my fault. I’m not saying it’s not mine for sure either. I might have been directly responsible for someone’s death–isn’t that cool? Well, at least it’s not my mama who died when I popped out of her bloody vagina. But then again I’m not a vagina baby. I came out of her sliced open tummy, scooped by the gloved hand of a complete stranger. So yes, the first person to have ever touched me was someone I didn’t know. Boring Jenny fact # 2. Number one is that I have a gap between my front teeth.

When will I ever stop being gross?

Tonight’s going to be my third graveyard shift. This is another hazard of doing what I do–looking like a zombie (and in time, possibly eating like one). I hate graveyards. I mean the shifts, not the actual graveyards. I love graveyards. I used to jog in two graveyards some mornings. I can’t do it now though with my shitty schedule. Graveyard shifts are unhealthy! Graveyard shifts disturb your sleeping and pooping pattern! There is no worse thing in the world (other than hashtagging yourself as #cutegirl in your Facebook selfies. And no, you’re not cute. Cute is like tiny, say, a micropenis. You however are nowhere near micro…if you get my drift).

Having a disturbed pooping pattern means you don’t poop once a day as is healthy. It takes away the joy of pooping. Sometimes pooping is even more magical than an orgasm, but that’s for another story. Point is, I hate night shifts. I also hate people.

Nah, not really. People are meat. I love meat. Oh, especially if you eat it raw–for the love of sushi and kinilaw! But people do despicable things like, I don’t know, existing? I really shouldn’t whine so much; a lot of people actually have been nice to me despite my face that says “I don’t care if you die” after it gets tired doing that fake gappy teeth smile. Actually, most of them have been nice to be honest.

People are generally nice, in theory. Niceness, however, only comes in certain durations.  So if you want less mean people exposure, spend the least amount of time as you can with people. Everything has an expiration date, you know. Even niceness. Don’t stretch your chances of getting a rewarding relationship from anyone. It’s not niceness that’s unreliable though. People are. Even dreams have expiration dates. So why still aspire for anything in life at all?

Wow…do you also get the feeling that I’m probably going to die alone?

If you’ve read this far you probably know what lack of sleep feels like. You also probably know I’m talking with a floating head.  I’m sorry for not being sorry for wasting your time. That’s a complete fallacy. I could never waste anyone’s time–it’s a person’s own choice.

So being logical aside, fuck that expiration date crap. The only thing that’ll expire is your brain (and food, and meds, and ovaries). Love doesn’t expire. Not that I know what it really is. It’s the most mysterious, ineffable phenomena in this universe (well, next to God–but isn’t God love? Isn’t he? Or…she? It???). Even death is more predictable than love and death is a great mindfucker.

This is an example of an expression of love. Just take my word for it. And yes, I really am a man.

This is an example of an expression of love. Just take my word for it. See how love and death can intertwine? And yes, I really am a man.

And if love can’t expire, and if you have…if you feel this love thingy in whatever way it chooses to take form now, perhaps it’s still not time to give up. Not on dreams (oh you better fucking not). Not on anything. Or anyone.

Fuck, I need sleep.

January 2, 2014

1:57 pm

I wish everyone misfortune!

Someone actually forced me to type that, saying he would cut off all ties with me unless I do that which I doubt he’d do because he loves me very much. You can’t just cut off people from your lives that easily. Especially not the pests.

I’m getting side-tracked. This is supposed to be an obligatory New Year’s post.

So yes, it’s exactly 2:00 pm of January 2, 2014 and this is already more than a day late. You don’t have to hear any of my excuses because I really have none. I suck as a blogger and that’s okay. That’s okay, right? Say yes or die!


Now you won’t hear any resolutions here. Or my plans for my blog. I really have none. This is just my personal internet space which is sometimes not that personal because of stupid bots. Yes, for 2013 bot bloggers have been “following” me at a steady pace.  Ugh really. I seriously think more than half of my blog followers are all bots. It’s funny and annoying. I don’t really get excited if I get new “followers” anymore because most of those people and/or bots don’t follow me as much as they want me to follow back. Well that sucks because I really don’t follow back just because you followed me. Eww. I seriously have to like you. Just like the same way I pick people to hang out with. I’m sorry to be such a snob and disappoint. Nah I’m not. Want to keep it real. Want to keep my relationships real–well, as real as the blogging platform allows.

Actually I’m really glad I started this blog. I made a promise to myself that this would exist for as long as I live. Ha, I know it would outlive me though. That’s cool and not cool at the same time. Cool because my greatness will live on for as long as the internet exists. Uncool because I, a warm and cuddly and thinking human being, am irrelevant compared to a set of codes and formulas and whatever you call those squiggly numbers and words combo that exist behind what you see in the screen.

Okay, I’m side-tracked again.

Well I’m glad I started this blog because of the people I get to meet. Yes, this is about to get sentimental. If you have read until this point it’s time to back out now. SAVE YOURSELVES!!! But yes, I think technology exists because it allows you to meet people you never would have otherwise. Believe me, I’d rather meet friends the traditional way, the touch and invade personal space way. But sometimes, you live thousands of miles away from interesting people and the said method could be so damn expensive to implement. I’d possibly only meet one person I’ve known through this blog before I die. I might possibly do obnoxious things with that person too. Actually I already do. No I won’t go into details. I’m going to tell you though, there’s a lot of spiroism involved. Don’t ask. Seriously.

So yes, hi old bloggy friends! Hello relatively new ones! Bots, fuck you! Let’s keep dumping our own creative (and sometimes not) musings in our own pages and read each other’s thoughts on things and agree or disagree or even kiss each other’s ass. That’s okay.

I like blogging because of the people I get to meet. And for that reason, this blog is going to stay. For better or for worse.

Eww a marriage line.

Now shoo, and wreak havoc for this new year! Live life as if you’re a child set to die at 11:59 pm of 31st December 2014. That would suck because a child won’t really be able to copulate though, or perhaps could but that’s horrible, so you better just live life as you then. As only you can live. Smile. Laugh. Appreciate (yes, you should do this more). Give. Say thank you. And fuck because fucking is wonderful.

Drop by sometimes though. Tell me I’m awesome. Or something. Definitely something.

You’re something, too. Smoochy smoochy.

I’m so shweet it’s disgusting.

A jolly good meal


A warm cozy cuddle session


A brand new car


Divorce papers finally finalized


Maybe a marriage proposal?


The absence of frogs in your room.

(Yeah, that'd be perfect...)



Or maybe all of these things.



I wish no one will be mean to you today.


I wish you even just a little bitty love.

Merry Christmas!

This gallery contains 1 photo.

Last night I met Miss Ingen. The time was rather peculiar. I was flirting with the idea of giving up the futile pursuit of being somebody. I was not fooling anyone, and last night I thought perhaps I should stop being fooled by myself. Few steps away from the door of my building stood a …

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We’ve never been a rich family. We didn’t have a home that we can really call our own until I was about in my sophomore year in high school. So yes, you can say I was used to sharing rooms with siblings and having a toilet that would make you put up a fight before it takes away your poopies to whatever land it is that poopies go.

But hey, being poor also has its perks. Sure, I’d rather be rich than poor any day–I’m no hypocrite. Then again you have to make light of what life serves you because if you won’t, there’s nothing else to lose (remember, you’re already poor bwaha!) but your sanity.

Without further blah-blah, here are the perks of being poor brought to you by someone who’s perpetually one:

You discover cheap entertainment.

Constantly being short on money allows you to figure out alternative ways to do things. I can’t count the times I’ve looked with envy on my friends’ new stuff and felt a truckload of self-pity dumped on me. Like, I was one of the last people in my class to have a cell phone. I can’t relate to video games talk because we can’t afford to buy those expensive games. So when you can’t afford buying these stuff to entertain yourself, what do you do?

Kill yourself.

Nah. You learn to be creative. I learned that I don’t need anything to entertain myself other than pen and paper. I learned to draw. I learned to write and loved it. Until now. That is why you’re reading this.

I’m sorry.

You invent new recipes.

We’ve had lots of times when we had little to eat. Oh no, it’s nothing like what those children in Africa are having–we’re rich compared to those kids. What I mean is that our choices are really more limited. You can’t have steak, bacon, or fresh fruits every day. And don’t even think you can start “healthy living” because healthy food is damn expensive. There was even a time when all we had was rice and soy sauce and some cooking oil. What do you do when faced with nothing but those three ingredients?

You stuff it in your mouth (it wasn’t really that bad–you should try it).

A gnawing stomach will eat anything. If it isn’t for those three life-saving ingredients, I would’ve eaten my brother that time.

To thee, my brother bestoweth his eternal gratitude.

To thee, my brother bestoweth his eternal gratitude.

You’re more likely to be immune to an emerging social disease.

There’s nothing as effective for ego control as being poor.

Okay, there’s also being ugly and being a complete failure, but let’s just settle on being poor now, shall we? So yes, when you’re poor you’re probably also going to be infected with the Sense of Entitlement virus like so many people–but it’s unlikely you’d get a full-blown disease. When you’re poor of course you hope for better things to come to you, but you’re less likely to be bitchy and whiny about it. Being poor, you know that nothing will happen unless you do something. Thus, you’re more likely to take some action and work hard if you want to have something instead of waiting for it to come to your lap like what your grossly rich counterparts are used to.

Or perhaps you’re the kind who’s already so used to being poor that you settle into that lifestyle–into that mindset–and gave up trying to have better things in life or to be better in anything at all.

In which case, you suck.


I assume like me, you are still human. I assume like me, you know one day you’ll die (if you don’t, well…I’m sorry? You will though). I assume like me. the big questions also float in the seminal fluid of your mind like sperms giddy to start a new life.

Today one of the gigantic ones popped up in my mind-semen on the way home:

What is the point of all this?

Yeah, yeah. I don’t expect you to come up with an answer. With a satisfying answer that is. That’s too broad a question to ask. But sometimes you just can’t help it. You look at your life and you feel as if someone just vacuumed your tummy so that you just have empty space between your breasts and your hips because you keep doing things that others tell you are the keys to success (as if that S-word means the same for everyone) when you claim you know  what really matters in life and those are not it.

What really matters in life anyway?

Maybe you’re not like me after all. Maybe this question doesn’t hold that much weight on you–perhaps because you believe you already have, and are so busy living the answer. Well yay for you! But then maybe you’ve given up hope. Or maybe you just don’t care anymore.

I do though. I want to live a good life.

Maybe it’s because of vanity; that longing to defeat death in a way by leaving imprints of yourself. I want to leave imprints that will make people remember me in a good way. But even then, this doesn’t really matter. For the people who remember you will eventually die. The people whom they shared your imprints will die too. As well as the next generation shared with memories of your existence. All will die, until not a single person in the future will remember you have ever lived.

Death still won after all. You’ve never really defeated it, only escaped it for a while longer.

So does it really matter? Maybe not in the big picture of Everything That Is.

But it still matters to me, living a “good” life. Because…because maybe I owe it to all the good stuff, commitments, deeds, hocus-pocus that resulted to whatever good that is now. Whatever’s good in me. Because I think I believe good begets good still; I don’t want to sow something awful and wicked and rotten because I just don’t. Maybe I’m not bitter enough about everything yet. And I don’t want to be.

I wonder if you’re the same.

So yes, living a good life. Let’s go back to that question of what matters in life, because figuring that out would be like getting that first kiss that leads to a hundred of orgasmic nights. Or mornings. Or whatever rocks your bed.

So what matters in your life now, future self? (And I wonder if–by any chance–you are sex-obsessed?)

I am kind of in mushy ground right now. Like it used to be a cemented road but a giant who just ate truckloads of oatmeal dumped on it. That mushy. Well, mushy might not really be the right word but euphemisms are still used in this era, remember? You see, I thought I was certain of what matters in life. But now not so much.

I mean, people matter most of all right? Especially the ones you care about. You should try to make as many meaningful connections as possible.


That’s how you get remembered, right? That’s also how you make an impact–hopefully a good one–on anything and anyone. Connections. So is that what matters? Building meaningful connections?

But then it’s a two-way thing. You can’t make a connection by yourself. You can try of course, but like good sex, it requires work from the other side.

Sometimes connections just fail because of our own selfishness.

People are so selfish, aren’t we? No point denying it. Selfishness has only become morally acceptable because we find a way to satisfy our selfishness at the same time satisfying that of others. Do that, and people would only be too willing to call your act any other name but selfishness. Not that I have a problem with that. I think it’s ” good” selfishness; a win-win situation.

But then sometimes people are just “bad” selfish. Like all they care about is satisfying themselves. That’s where the connection links break.

I don’t know where this is going, future self. I think I started ranting about the seeming pointlessness of life, then saying perhaps there is yet a point only that you have to find it–or make it–then I ranted again about how difficult it is to live to that point.

I wonder what happens after we die. But that’s for another letter.

This time I want to focus on living. Talking about it at least, how to live. Maybe I should just stop writing and start living my life. Start making connections. Or try to. But then again I am trying to make this connection to you. So I guess I kinda am living my life.

Future self, I hope you still have and always will have a reason to live.

I think that’s really the first kiss towards a hundred orgasmic nights.


Connections by Miguel Navarro

Connections by Miguel Navarro

Connectivity by Chloe Mydlowski

Connectivity by Chloë Mydlowski

I do not know where to start, how to describe the horror my people have been through for the past days because of typhoon Haiyan. But the world probably already has a good idea of that by now.

We as a whole nation, along with the rest of our countrymen scattered across the globe, grieve because of what happened to our own people. It is the latest and strongest beating we have suffered following the September armed conflict crisis and the 7.2 magnitude earthquake last October

No nation is ever perfect. I have many things to say against my country and people. And yet despite of our many flaws, the love for the Philippines and the Filipino people is something that I cannot deny.

As we religiously listen to the news and keep track of the plight of our people, many who lived in areas, cities which have been virtually wiped out; many of whom have never eaten or drank anything for days; many of whom have all members of their family dying on that storm, I feel as if I’m being punched in the gut, something being squeezed inside my chest, and something very awful stuck in my throat.

Yes, it is heartbreaking. And yet there is that definite feeling of relief that it was not us, because it could have so easily been. If the storm’s path happened to include my own province, I’m not sure I would still be able to type this right now. The whole nation prepared for days for the coming of the storm, but our preparation is just not enough. We are not a wealthy nation and we do not have the necessary technology and infrastructure to withstand one of the strongest tropical cyclones in recorded history. We do not have the resources to evacuate populations of entire cities, entire provinces out of areas directly hit by the storm’s path.

Yes, there might have been lapses, by the government and by the people as well. But does that really matter now? Instead of the pointless finger-pointing and political wiles, helping these typhoon survivors stand up again should be the main focus of the nation. And if that entails setting aside political interests–or even the much simpler yet annoying need of one’s own ego to presume that somebody, anybody is at fault but oneself–then that is what should happen.

But this is not a perfect world.

Not perfect, but a world still definitely worth living and believing in.

I can say this because we have tremendously felt the help coming from the whole world. National governments, international groups, private groups, celebrities, and especially ordinary individuals, we have all felt your goodwill and concrete aid to the Philippines.

For this, thank you.

Thank you.


As of now, recovery is still painfully slow but every day we witness an improvement. As citizens of this country, it would be our duty to not just allow your help be for naught and end up in the coffers of pigs who call themselves people. As citizens of this country, we are also doing our individual share to help, in any way that we can.

I would like to believe this. I would still like to believe in the world. I would still like to believe in the Filipino.

In fact, I still do.

I am currently writing a book.

Let me repeat that: I am currently going through hell trying to type words hoping it would one day end up as something most rational creatures would consider a book.


Trying to finish a novel is different from creating short stories, essays, and say, a blog post. Mostly it’s because it needs one stubborn ass of a determined typing idiot person , and skill if you’d be honest (talent, um, well maybe that too…but many novels apparently lack a touch of that. Yes, I’m Miss Judgeymonster).

I have never finished a novel before. Never. I have tried but I never even reached halfway of traditional novel length before I gave up and let it rot in my hard drive.

Maybe it was the lack of will, maybe it was life getting in the way, maybe I have some form of ADHD, maybe it was blah blah shitty shitty ah.

But for now, I’m publishing this and will never take it out because I wanted a sort of reminder that would be shared possibly with one or two, maybe five people at the most who’d bother to read this. Something that might make you say, “Hey, how’s that book writing going on?” Yeah, and I’d have to squirm and feel nauseating guilt rushing up from my guts as I’d try to let out a comprehensible answer and not just “HE HE bookglargglarg EH UM wadafuckchutalkingabout ERrggG”

This time, I want to finish a first completed draft that would inevitably, absofuckinlutely suck salty ass.

That is all. It’s one little step at a time, right? But yeah, I plan to kick my butt into writing everyday to add up to the pages of my future book. And I’m gonna do this for as long as it takes to retch the story out from my creative brainmuck. And damn me to writer hell if I stop in the middle of the tormenting, monster-filled road to novel completion this time.


*stares silently in space.

Yeah. I am currently writing a book.


She’s half-awake when she starts to feel breathing at the back of her neck. Then she feels these awesome sensations as one hand cupped her breast, pinching her nipples, as the other hand slides down, down under her panties making her feel so damn good that she wants more, all of it, and this fully woke her up. Now, with one finger already inside her doing its job, she realized she’s supposed to be living alone in the house.

crooked hand


*image NOT mine*

There is nothing on the other side but white noise–oh you know, that kind that you hear on the local Christian radio back in the old days at midnight onwards, the one that mocks, as if it knows something important that you don’t. And maybe it does, but it has no intention of ever, not ever, revealing it to you.

“I told you no one would pick up. Never did for me, never did for anyone, that Jesus man. Welcome to hell.”




*image NOT mine*

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