Mary and Max


“We don’t get to choose our warts. They are a part of us and we get to live with them. We can however, choose our friends.”

There are things that are beautiful because they let you see what is good in this world. And then there is that other kind of beauty; the kind that shows you the broken and the lonely and the painful things. What’s really best of all is when the two kinds mesh together, and you know you’re looking at something that is not only beautiful but sublime.

Well, that third kind is precisely how I’ve felt watching Mary and Max.

The story starts in 1976 with eight-year old Mary Dinkle (voiced by Bethany Whitmore and Toni Collette), a lonely girl with eyes the color of muddy puddles and a birthmark on her forehead the color of poo. She lives with an alcoholic-slash-kleptomaniac mother and a father who attaches strings to tea bags at work, and would rather spend his free time with his dead birds than with her. Desperately wanting for a friend, she picks a random address from an American address book and writes that person a letter. This person happens to be the forty-four year old Max Horowitz.

Max (voiced by the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman) is a Jew living in a New York City apartment with his fish, some snails, a parakeet, and a one-eyed cat. At 352 lb, he is trying to lose weight and attends his Overeaters Anonymous class during Thursdays. Because of his Asperger’s Syndrome, he finds people very confusing. He especially finds it difficult dealing with nonverbal cues and facial expressions. His anxiety is triggered by street litterers and anything new and stressful, Mary’s letter included.

I am very much in awe with writer, designer, and director Adam Elliot for bringing to us such a poignant tale of friendship and acceptance. Aside from the story, the movie is visually beautiful. Oh really, kudos to the animation team! The performances of the voice artists are equally flawless as well.

And this should be said: it is funny almost to a fault. You don’t always see themes such as mental illness, suicide, atheism, bullying, alcoholism and homosexuality among others tackled in this playful manner. But in spite (or perhaps because) of it, its depth is made only clearer to our jaded adult minds.

Perhaps this movie is not for everyone. But give it a try. The worst you could get is a genuine slice of life. And well, a recipe for chocolate hot-dog.

Rating: 5/5

I love the sound of rain when it’s gentle and barely there. It is calming and makes me think of cold water quenching my thirst. But like everything, I know rain has many faces. One day it could nurture you, the next it could destroy. Everything in life is a game of balance, it seems. Even love.

Most of all love.

I am full of love. And I want to share it with as much as I could. But people are fragile, and I am afraid. Afraid to be hurt because people rarely know how to handle love. How to receive, but more so how to give. Some people even reject your love, and that is okay. Love is beautiful, but not all pretty things are welcomed. Thus love hurts, but it doesn’t mean it will stay that way. The world is full of people to love, people to love back.

And in case you really can’t find any, there’s always Kit Kats.

Fact 1: I haven’t been working in my soon-to-be-ex job for a full year.
Fact 2: I will never get the cash bond I paid because of it. 
Fact 3: I get no Certificate of Employment either because the hospital has a “policy” of not giving you that until you reach at least two years of working with them. 
Fact 4: This is probably the best (or worst) decision I’ve made for ages now. 

Most people would call me a fool for letting go of a regular job with benefits such as being a nurse. But then they haven’t seen the gross sight of me lying in bed losing all interest in the world (including the basics of proper hygiene) during the hours I wasn’t working.

In all self-awareness, that was the closest I’ve ever come to real depression.

depressed nurse


I was very unhappy with my job that I dread waking up each day (or night) because I know soon enough I would be getting to work. I’m sure I’m not alone with that feeling…right? Please tell me I wasn’t along fantasizing every day the moment I finally get to quit.

And because I was so stressed with my job, I coped up with the method that was easiest for me: that is, to stress eat.

stress eater


My job also requires irregular working hours. That means my body clock is fucked up like a hyena on drugs.

Yes, I clearly lost my life.

Yes, I clearly lost my life.

That schedule would have been fine (?) if I loved what I’m doing. But if I should be honest, I actually do. There’s nothing like the fulfillment knowing that you helped save a life.

But I guess I’m no hero. The problem, you see, is that there are other things I love to do much more than my job (i.e. writing, doodling, running on cemeteries, eating Kit Kats). Yet because of that fucked-up schedule, and the energy depletion that comes with it, I wasn’t able to do those things anymore.

And well, that made me sad.

Just two months in at my job, I was already seriously contemplating resignation. But I held on–why, I’m still not quite certain. However a month ago, the little remaining strand of endurance finally broke. All those nights of crying, feeling trapped and inadequate and all other emotions raging hormones and lack of sleep could bring finally took its toll.

I resign


Submitting that resignation letter took a certain dose of courage and idiocy. I don’t know what my next job would be or if anyone will still hire me or how long my savings would last before I start seeing the next person I meet as a banana.

There’s a lot of uncertainties in the road ahead of me. (Hell, ahead of anyone. But this is my blog, so well…) Tomorrow I might be the next roadkill, who knows. Now though, I know I took the first step to be happy. Again.

Because you know, happiness is not a disease.

happiness is not a disease



1. You’ve seen my blubbery tummy and didn’t laugh…too much.

2. You will NEVER make me regret spending money to treat you to an All-You-Can-Eat buffet. :3

3. You let me eat a whole box of 12″ (or was it 16″?) pizza on your birthday and didn’t shame me about it…too much.
4. You never called me stupid even when you’ve seen my social media accounts from back when I was fifteen years old.
5. You can make a dog sit/stay and not disturb me while I steal from their owners.
6. You love those furry beasts and they love you back and together we could build an army.
7. You started an organization for fat boys when you were a teen and it turned out to be really…funny (I think it was successful too though–it was, wasn’t it?).

8. When you smile, I smile.

9. You are a sports master. Really, you could win us gazillion points on Trivia Night!
10. You do these comforting stuff when I am sick, when you really should have told me to stop faking it.
11. Your tongue.

12. You’ve watched more cartoons than I ever had. That is a good sign of maturity.

13. You give really good movie recommendations. Oh how I enjoyed Cannibal Holocausts…
14. You don’t put too much effort into looking good…
15. …yet you’re still far from being the ugliest person ever.

16. You are so passionate about things you love.

donut lover

17. You have never refused me Spiro. Not once.
18. You are not as gross as the average Facebook user.
19. Cloud Atlas and The Boner Coc–I mean The Bone Clocks.
20. You watch the movies I recommend to you whenever you can. And you better, cos I have good movie tastes. Remember Labyrinth?
21. You could destroy me. But you won’t……RIGHT?

22. You are so good at making yourself appear good even though when you’re not quite being good. Which of course makes you a great crime partner. Now, how about that bank?

23. You really are a good person though. BAB. Baby Angel Bitch…I mean Boyle.
24. You never cease to remind me I’m beautiful everyday, even when you see my snot. Which, of course, makes you a liar.
25. You never force or even suggest I should be like somebody else. Even though you told me I’m dead to you once. But that’s a different thing…right?
26. You always show extra effort to make me feel like I’m the most special person in this whole crazy Earth. Again, such a good freaking liar, you are.

27. You are just simply fucking adorable.

Or adorable in fucking. Whatever, Whatever. :3

Happy Birthday, Timmy! Lots of 11.

Timmy Simba

Well you’re a baby devil. So you know…

It is an ordinary day, by all counts. As per usual, I had less than two hours of sleep before I have to set out again and interact with homo sapiens of all kinds to get to the monthly meeting of the hospital where we talk about “updates” but never really achieving anything. It is my off–even though I’d just spend it sleeping all day, really, when I get back from the hospital (after I make up my mind about going or not)–and well, I’ve been listening to wonderful music. That always makes me want to do something…that something always being to write.

I have many things to say but the words haven’t found each other yet in this murky puddle disguising as mind. I feel in love, and loved, and yet I also feel temporary. Because we all are. Everything is temporary; every thing you see, every person you see, all of these things will be lost someday. And perhaps, this fact is what makes everything matter. What makes everything real.

I am living. I could die any minute, maybe this minute, maybe the minute after my seventieth birthday. Who the hell knows, who the hell cares.

I am happy to be alive.


Being a nurse is a noble job. You get to take care of sick people at a minimum wage and getting shitty schedules from a management that suck ass. But really, it is a noble job. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who just wants a job for the sake of getting paid. Hell no. Be a machine operator. A telemarketer. A part-time organ donor. But never take a job that requires you to serve people, unless you really have a heart made for service. Which makes you kind of a hero. Sort of.

Still, I do not like being a nurse. As soon as I can, I’d like to get out of this job. Just starting to think of the many reasons why gets me depressed. But they say writing is therapeutic. Well, you have now the privilege of being my therapist, Internet.

Messing up your body clock is not an option, it is a must.

Ugh. Ugh. Just thinking about my shitty schedule makes me want to puke. But fine, let me try to explain. In a month, I work 26 days. It’s either a six-day or seven-day stretch of working days. And my working hours vary during those stretches. 1st and 2nd day I’d work AM shift (6 am to 2 pm). 3rd and 4th day I’d work PM shift (2 pm to 10 pm). 5th to 6th/7th day I’d work night shift (10 pm to 6 am). But that’s the “ideal” schedule pattern. Depending on the management, you could have just one AM shift in seven days and four night shifts or whatever combination you can think of if they feel like it. But that’s the pattern, AM-PM-night then you have your off day. After your off you’ll have AM shift the next day.

That means after getting home in the morning after a night of working, you’d sleep then wake up late in the day–too late to even plan what you’re going to do to celebrate your off–just to realize you have to wake up early the next morning to work again. Isn’t it fantastic?

You get a huge paycheck–NOT!

You’d laugh yourself out of pity when you see my paycheck. Sure you might think nurses get paid a lot from wherever you are. Not here. For eight hours I get paid less than what your minimum wage earners earn in an hour. Yes, I should just kill myself.

Overtime pay is a thing from another universe.

When you are a shift worker, you can’t left your post when there’s nobody there to replace you. Most of all, you can’t leave your post if you haven’t done everything that needs to be done during your shift. To do a decent job of the workload that is expected of you, eight hours is rarely enough. To do your job effectively, sometimes it requires to you stay and clean up your track for an hour or two more. Yes, THAT IS EXPECTED OF YOU. But from those hour or two, YOU SHOULD NOT EXPECT TO HAVE OVERTIME PAY. Who are you, Cinderella? Hell, no. This is the real world, bitch. You should have expected to be overworked and underpaid the moment you even started to breathe. Now wipe those snot off your face, you whiny little shit.

Help is another thing from another universe.

Yes, to those of you nurses who have experienced working with nurse assistants then please realize how lucky you still are or I’m gonna wish you start having gross pus-filled boils all over your body. In this country, that is just a fantasy. They can’t even afford to hire ample amount of nurses, what more of nursing assistants? Yes, we are expected to do EVERYTHING on our shifts. The mountain load of paperwork and the bedside work, that is expected from just one person (that’s because my employers implement primary nursing care delivery system, if that means anything at all to you). This, in a setting that is still primitive in terms of health care technology. Ugh. Ugh I’m really getting nauseated…

You are forced to meet lots of people everyday.

Yes, for some that might not be such turn-off. But well, I think I’m an introvert. Mostly. Meeting people and talking to them and listening to their complaints and trying your best to make them comfortable drains the energy out of me in a single shift that when I get home I just want to lock myself out in my room and enjoy “Me time”. Well what little of it I have. I guess I shouldn’t really complain because most jobs are like that, people-oriented.

But well…people can be so obnoxious at times. Ugh, just imagine taking care of a bitchy, entitled patient who treats you like you’re her personal slave who should tend to her every whine. Ugh..just…UGH.

So yeah, those are about the major things I find depressing about my job. If I dwell on it too long I just might resign at once. But then again, there’s something still holding me at my post. Perhaps it is that wonderfully satisfying experience when a patient expresses his or her heartfelt gratitude of your efforts. Or perhaps it is the harsh reality that finding another job is not that easy. Yeah, it’s probably the latter.

Ugh I should just be a full-time bum. That is so much easier.

(P.S. I’d probably get fired for this, if the right people find out. Let’s see.)

“I killed the kid, of course.”

It was getting late and we’re the only ones left in the office. With the dim lighting, silence, and lack of emotion from his face, well, it was very believable.

“Damn you man,” I said, letting out an awkward laugh. “You almost got me.”

“But it’s true. You would do the same if you were in my place.”

“You want me to believe that the kids in the daycare next door are merciless, blood-thirsty killing machines who kill people everyday for their homework. And that one almost killed you but then you got to him first? Right. Yeah. And I eat babies’ fingers for my afternoon snacks.”

“It is true though,” he said, still with the same poker face.  “And I do not regret killing that motherfucking monster. He had every intention of chopping off my cock in that washroom. I’m telling you, man, those kids are murderous little shits. Yes, including my nephew. He was there looking when his classmate was doing his homework of murdering me. He would’ve finished the job if he could. Hell, I’m not going near that kid ever again. Not until he was exorcised of whatever they did to him in that school. Not that my brother would allow me to see the boy anyway. Not after I almost drowned him in the tub.”

“You seriously have to cut on the dope man. Or whatever it is you’re hitting right now,” I said, smirking. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m pretty spent up”

“I’m telling you the truth, Jay. I swear.”

“Yeah. Good night, man.”

I left the building and started to walk home. I automatically turned right, up the road that would pass the daycare since it’s the shortest walk and the same route I use every night. Hearing Fred’s story though made me stop in my tracks.

I laughed. “Geez, that idiot would be so smug.”

So I continued to walk on because I couldn’t let Fred pull one of his pranks again. I let him get on my nerves before. That made me the butt of office jokes for a year and two months.

Well not again.

I started whistling a tune just in case Fred was following me taking a video. Hell, I’m not letting that dumb jock get the satisfaction he wants. The daycare building is so dark at this hour of the night, but most buildings are anyway. The playground seems so still, unlike the sight I see every morning. There isn’t a single kid in sight. In spite of myself, I let out a sigh of relief.


“What the f–where the fuck  did you come from, kid?”

“You work with my uncle, don’t you?”

Fred. It was Fred’s nephew.

I ran, of course.

KIndergarten by Vladimir Kochetkov

Kindergarten by Vladimir Kochetkov


It’s been a while since I’ve posted here. I guess I was just busy with life. Living mine and trying to save others while I’m at it. I am making myself sound a lot more like a superhero instead of the reality which includes inserting stuff on other people’s body holes.  And sometimes making other holes. Why am I talking about holes? I’m supposed to be talking about myself like a normal, self-obsessed human being.

I missed blogging, in a way. But to be honest, I don’t really get the satisfaction anymore that I got here since perhaps a year ago. Or two to be more accurate. Maybe I am just going through a phase. Maybe I find this to be a less fun, less genuine, less comforting place than it used to be. Or maybe, again, I am just going through a phase.

Some days I can’t even remember why I started blogging. I guess I had something to say before. I still have something to say now, of course, but I have found more rewarding ways to express those things other than blogging here. Instead of spending whatever free time and extra energy I have into blogging, I use it now in nurturing my relationships and writing. This I guess makes it obvious what my priorities are at this time.

This is not a goodbye however. I will keep this blog running for as long as I could. It has a lot of myself in it already. I have rediscovered my love for writing when I started this blog. I have also made a few but rewarding relationships with other bloggers. These things will forever make me grateful, and it is enough reason why I cannot bring myself to delete the blog. Yes, yes, I guess am quite sentimental. You have my permission to make fun. We are all gross in our own little ways after all.

I will still be posting here time and again. I am sorry for not visiting as often as I used to. Yes, I am a jerk. I do think of you at times though, some more than others. You are never forgotten. And with all sincerity that a few words can express, I do hope you all are experiencing some happiness in your life now. Or at least, something quite like it.

Yes, you.

Have a good day. Nah, have a good life. And remember, happiness is not a disease

As a specie, we have been guilty of recreational drug use ever since the dawn of history. Sumerians purportedly had a symbol for opium which translates to “joy” dating as far back as 7000 years ago. Yes, some researchers strongly claim say getting a fix has started way before formal history, proposing that the use of mind-altering substances was already a thing for the Stone Age man. Whether or not we could call them the original “stoners” still has to reach its conclusion. While waiting for them smarty-pantsies finish their debate, here are other facts about the use of mind-altering substances you probably don’t want to know.


We’re not the only suspects

crazy horse

Horses share a thing or two with us humans. During winter when food is scarce horses make do with what’s abundantly around, which is the aptly named locoweed. What these horses don’t know is that once tasted they will always be wanting locoweed and only locoweed. Sounds like horses getting addicted? Sadly for these horses, locoweed not only makes them literally “loco” (staggering gait, lethargic one second and jumpy the next, becoming extremely troublesome), but ingestion of the legume actually poisons them which in many cases lead to death.

Perhaps horses should stick with “frog juice” instead? Dermorphin, a substance found in the back of a frog that is forty times more powerful than morphine, has been used by racing trainers to enhance the performance of their injured horses by numbing the pain. Aside from this, it also causes excitation and euphoric states. This less fatal alternative for locoweed might prove to be good news for the equines. Not so much for the frogs though.


Lassie does it too

2-dogs addicted to toads

Or perhaps her Australian versions do. Queensland dogs were dubbed by vets as “serial lickers” for repeated cases of cane toad poisoning. It is assumed that the sweetness of toad sweat was what attracted the dogs to start licking at first, but the hallucinogenic effects were the ones that kept them coming.

Cane toads produce “toad venom” as a defense mechanism (which is intentionally triggered by dogs by chasing their amphibian “drug pushers”) and it contains the hallucinogenic Bufotenine, a substance producing the same effect as LSD. Because of the psychedelic opportunities offered by the poor humble toad in its frightened/alarmed state, they have become some people’s most favorite animal–even having a church founded in their honor.


And yet Dumbo is the worst of ‘em all

3-drunk elephants

No, we’re not talking about that elephant who got addicted to heroin after he was fed with drugged bananas laced with the stuff. It’s not even the once living, Victorian-era elephant Jumbo (to whom Disney’s Dumbo was based and the widely-recognized adjective for something immensely huge like say, jumbo thighs, originated) who was apparently managed by his “caretakers” by giving him huge amounts of alcohol.

Those elephants seem innocent compared to the fifty elephants who ransacked a village in search of booze. Elephants apparently are very fond of alcohol that wherever liquor is in store, there their trunks would follow. In the Indian village of Dumurkota last 2012, fifty elephants were lured out of the forest by the smell of alcohol from one of its shops, consuming approximately 500 liters of the stuff. Not satisfied with that, they rampaged through the village searching for more booze destroying three houses as a result.

And yet those fifty rowdy pachyderms committed less damage compared to a single elephant who wreaked havoc in the village of Dalokgarupara last 2005. Three people were killed and seven were injured as this stray elephant went berserk searching for rice beer.


Santa and the Urine Exchange

4-reindeer pee

Yes, this one’s still drug-related. There’s a theory saying arctic shamans were the inspiration for the conjuring of Santa Claus. What’s really interesting though is the supposed origin of the flying reindeer.

Rather than taking LSD, the Sami people feed fly agaric mushroom (the Amanita muscaria, whose red and white color supports the origin of Santa theory) to their reindeers and collect these creatures’ urine, and drink it in order to get high. Ingestion of reindeer pee resulted to vivid hallucinations such as that the Sami people thought their reindeers are flying through the arctic sky.

But here’s more: the reindeers have developed such a liking for these hallucinogens that when the Samis pee on the snow during their “high” states, the reindeers in turn eat the snow to get the same effect. Now that is mutually beneficial.


Ants and the Manipulative Tree


5-protector ants

Here’s another tale of addiction and what seems to be a mutually beneficial relationship–at first.  Have you ever wondered why the acacia tree is heavily guarded with ants? That’s because the tree gives off a sugary syrup to feed them, all for the price of protection. Seems like a healthy enough relationship, right?

Wrong. The acacia produces sap which deliberately causes addiction and dependence to its protector ants. The ants, Pseudomyrmex ferruginea, were found out lacking the enzyme invertase which is basically needed to digest sucrose, the sweet sap’s basic component. The tree makes up for this by secreting invertase along with its nectar. So what’s the catch? It was found out that the tree’s sap also includes the enzyme chitinase which blocks the development of invertase in these ants. The larvae ants were found out to have the invertase but lose it when they develop into adults because of chitinase ingestion, resulting with the ants unable to find other food sources other than the acacia.

And that means all it takes is one sip of the acacia’s sweet nectar as a larvae to lead up to a lifetime of bodyguard service. Seems like nature is the original perpetrator of slavery now, doesn’t it?


***Now enough about them bad animals. Let’s go to who’s more obnoxious–humans.***


Coca-Cola and the “Secret” Ingredient


Even if you wouldn’t see the company admitting, a review of history tells us the world’s most popular soft drink once contained cocaine. It started in 1886 when Atlanta pharmacist John Styth Pemberton concocted a drink mixing coca-leaf extract with French wine which he then called Pemberton’s French Wine Coca. It was even advertised as a patent cure-all tonic, reliever of headaches and morphine addiction, yet one with such a strong “kick” that Southerners even called Coke delivery trucks back then as “dope wagons” and soda fountains as “hop joints”.

Because of alcohol regulations though, Pemberton changed the drink into a sugary syrup but still with its main ingredients coca-leaf and kola-nut extract (hence the origin of the current trade name), along with a dose of caffeine.

It wasn’t until the 1890s when public opinion started to sway differently towards cocaine, reaching its peak in 1903 which finally pushed the company’s manager to remove almost all traces of cocaine in the drink. However, it wasn’t until 1929 that the technology has become available to remove all psychoactive properties of the cola-leaf.

But did it stop there really? A New York Times’ article claimed that the company was still importing coca leaves until the late 1980s. Seems the multi-billion dollar company has indeed strong reasons to put its “secret formula” heavily guarded under bank vaults, huh?


Atheists use it more


In a study funded by the Swiss National Science Foundation, it was concluded that from a group of 5,387 young men, those who said they believe in God deal with substance misuse less than those who are agnostics or atheists. The group was categorized into five: the “religious”, the “spiritual”, the “unsure”, the “agnostics”, and the “atheists”. It was found out that the least amount of consumption of addictive substances (i.e. cigarettes, pot, ecstasy, and cocaine) happened among the religious group while the most habitual users are–you guessed it–the atheists.

Gerhard Gmel, the author of the study further concludes that religion serves as a protective factor instead of a risk factor when it comes to substance addiction.

Well that, or the religious group could be the bigger liars among the group.


But even the pope got hooked

8-pope using coke

In cocaine’s superstar era (aka Victorian era), an aspiring Italian chemist named Angelo Mariani formulated a wine he called Vin Mariani. He treated the wine with coca leaves, resulting to the ethanol acting as a solvent to extract the cocaine from the leaves, forming the compound cocaethylene–a liver killer and heart attack instigator.

From his first client–a depressed actress–the tonic quickly rose up to fame, even reaching the pope at the time, Pope Leo XIII. The pope liked the drink laced with cocaine so much that he even brought with him his personal flask that he can easily drew up in times of need. Enjoying the effects of this potent tonic, he was very grateful that he awarded a Gold Medal to the wine’s manufacturer.

Mariani of course saw this as a big break. He advertised the Gold Medal award in posters along with the pope’s picture as well. Fewer things could be said as more effective advertisement at the time, and yet the tonic’s other clients were not exactly small names either–the Shah of Persia, King of Spain, King of Greece, Queen Victoria and US President Ulysses S. Grant also got hooked to the stuff. Seems like Mariani got the break he was looking after all.


Cocaine Dollar

9-cocaine dollar

Now this one is pretty obvious. Research on 2008 showed that 90 percent of US dollar bills in circulation tested positive for traces of cocaine. The bills in your wallet right now might be involved in cocaine drug deals where it got passed from one drug dealing hand to another, or even used to actually snort coke by some users. However, most of the bills got contaminated when it passed through contaminated cash-counting machines at the bank, then the contaminated machine passes on the cocaine to otherwise “clean” banknotes.

But before you go trying to find ways to extract the coke from you bills, it might be relevant to note that the cocaine found in your money is too small an amount to give you a high. That’s unless you have plenty of cash around you–then, it might be reasonable to go sniffing the air to get that high (bank tellers literally breathe in the stuff and might even test positive for cocaine). Then again with that much money you could always go buy the stuff instead. Duh.



So that’s it. I’m out of here again. Will be back to give you some more non-life-changing information once I find the time. Or I could just show you a cute picture of my butt cheek? No? Okay, bye.

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.


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