Dear Diary

I gotta be the stupidest person on earth.

You see, I have managed to make myself 100 fucking times uglier than I already was. Yep, that’s possible.

This afternoon, I was so engrossed reading on my PC Kindle that I did survival things (i.e. eating, drinking, breathing, farting) on automatic mode. Normal, right? Wrong! It’s all because of this stupid tumbler:

The Accused.

Pair that tumbler with sheer idiocy and you’ve got the weapons to start your personal Doomsday.

You know how kids people do silly/purposeless things like blowing bubbles in their drinks using a straw or making gum bubbles? They’re nothing to what I did. I actually sucked the air out of that tumbler because of I-don’t-fucking-know-what:

This is the scene where The Tumbler gave my mouth an effin blowjob.

Well you know what happened next.

Oh, you don’t? Allow me to humor you. Imagine yourself putting your mouth inside that empty tumbler and mimic how a vacuum cleaner works. Right, so the tumbler will now stick to your skin because of the vacuum/pressure formed and it will continue to do so until you exhale. Heck, you can even dance with that tumbler beak of yours as long as you can manage to hold your breath!

So yeah, I forgot how long or how many times I repeated that sucking thing with the damned tumbler because as I said, the book I was reading was so goooooood (read: Blackbirds by Chuck Wendig). Perhaps I did it too often or for too long–who freaking knows?!

What I do know is as follows.

When I stood up to do something crucial (i.e. allowing my bulimic bladder to purge itself) in automatic mode, I happened to glance at the mirror and saw something magical.

This:

Actual shot of mine, cartoonized.

Yep, I actually managed to make myself un-erasable clown lips because I allowed the tumbler from hell to give my mouth a blowjob.

Sensible people call the result a bruise.

I call it a Lip Shiner.

Or T.O.S.S. (Tumbler Oral Sex Shiner).

Or S.I.S. (Stupidity Induced Shiner).

Fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuckkkk!

Right now? I can’t get to my job without a mask on. Hell, I can’t get out of my room without a mask on! I actually made my life literally worse because of being too engrossed in a book. And they say books make you smarter! GAAAAAH!

Phew. Well, diary? At least there are lessons I’ve learned because of this whole unfortunate event (this is me using my defense mechanism of rationalization, so shut up):

1. DO NOT do something that takes up most, if not all, of your cognitive function like reading a book, deciphering a mathematical code, or tying your shoe laces without another person in the same room to warn you of impending doom because of the possible things your body could do in automatic mode.
2. Face masks are survival tools. ALWAYS replenish stocks.
3. Tumblers are creatures from hell. BURN all stocks!
4. DO NOT, I repeat, do not receive blowjobs from anyone or any-fucking-thing unless you know how closely related they are to a frigging suction pump.

and 5…

BUY A FUCKING BRAIN a.s.a.p., CLOWNFACE!!!

I guess that is all for now diary. Thank you for listening.

Living a worse life than ever,

    J.                     

The Problem of Goths

“What don’t you like about me?”

“Well…you’re ugly.”

Oops. Rewind.

There were days when I have humongous doubts regarding the logic behind the world’s nomenclature of people. Take a man who doesn’t like sports, who enjoys chick flicks and isn’t afraid to cry. Piece these facts together and you get yourself another fag. Because someone is American, it automatically makes him an idiot. Because a person is an octogenarian, you should watch the amount of space between you because that person is obviously incapable of performing any hygienic act.

And just because I enjoy black on my closet and eyelids, am pale, and very dark-haired, I am automatically classified a member of the Addam’s Family. I wouldn’t have mind, really.

If only they didn’t hold such catalog against the career option of kindergarten teaching.

I guess goth is a better tag to wear than psychopath any day. Just imagine the onerous life of Dr. Seuss! But I also want to teach little kids so my life’s really worse; don’t even want to think about the number of rejections I got from all the schools who think I don’t look right for the job.

“So…do I get the job?” [Smile.]

“Miss, um, Stahley, um, you have very good credentials, impeccable background.”

[Smile. And try hard to ignore the big BUT coming next.]

“But there’s one thing. You see, the image you’re projecting does not really sync with the school’s philosophy.“ [Translation: I don’t like your false eyelashes and pencil-thin eyebrows. And you could try to update your color palette…aren’t you too old for pigtails?]

The bitch.

Do a little paraphrasing and you get the same scenario in all the school’s I’ve applied for–it’s as if they can already imagine me teaching the kids how to sing, “Satan loves you this I know…”!

Well, except Little Me, that is.

Miss Lynch, the gargantuan head teacher, gave me my shortest interview to date.

“Why should I accept you?” Then the devil (or M. Jackson) chose that moment to reveal a great truth to me, so I answered: “Because you see your younger self in me, and you know I could actually be good.”

Static.

Then she belched. “Idiot. Be here first thing in the morning. No uniforms. Wear something you would normally wear to meet kids. Except yellow. It blinds me.”

Here’s a secret: I think she really hates kids. But yeah, I got accepted for my first teaching job ever. So the gal will forever hold a spot in my book.

Now fast forward to my first day, breaktime. Let’s skip the part where I introduce myself to the kids and worse, to the others (a.k.a Adults), and all the singing in between. It wasn’t as bad as the fast forwarding implies. I rather enjoyed how things played out.

Until Johnny, the devil’s child, happened.

I was supposed to get some me time (like normal adults who just spent almost an entire hour with kids do) while the kids play outside when I felt something poking the back of my thighs.

“Oh, hi there.” It was the kid with the obnoxious spectacles, the one with chains on it. “Johnny, right? Is there any problem?”

“You shouldn’t have gone here.”

Static.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think I know what you mean, Johnny.”

“Stop teaching here.”

“You don’t like me teaching you?”

“No, I just don’t like you.” Static. “Me and the others.”

“Oh.”

More static.

“So…the other kids asked you to approach me, huh?”

“They said I shouldn’t do it because you’ll get angry.”

Even more static.

“Are you?”

Combustion.

“No, Johnny. I’m not angry with you nor with your friends. Hey, I’m curious…”

[In which you enter the first two sentences of this saga.]

***

I is for Irony

I think I think too much. I think when I ought to be feeling. I think when I ought to be sleeping. I think about logical things and non sequiturs alike (sometimes simultaneously). I think I’m using my mind too much. I think I’m sounding like I’m trying to sound smart. But hey, I think …

Deflowering a Theory

Those who hang out with me long enough know that I’m rather fond of theories. No, not the academic type. Like yuck? E=mc² means fungus to me. I’m talking about “practical” theories.  I enclosed the practical under those squiggly punctuation because like anything, practicality is subjective. To me, being practical is just like when I’ve learned how to pick my battles. That is a practical skill.

Sometimes though, I totally forget it.

Typical scene in a playground/Facebook chatbox.

Now theories. See, I have this new theory. I’m sounding like a pretentious fool claiming it as mine when for all I know it has already been said before. But then again, only bona fide fools think like that. Even you if you actually think of that right now. For everything has in fact been already said before. We just keep on rediscovering things, tweaking with them a bit, and voila! We think of these ideas as ours. Well that’s how the world works. We’re all selfish that way.

But without further blah-blah, this is “my” recycled theory:

There are four kinds of people: those who live in the past, the ones who live in the present, and the ones who live for the future. The fourth kind lives in another dimension.

Now let me expand on that using the idiot’s favorite format–BULLETS!

• Psychiatrists mostly make a living out of the last one. But they are all qualified to be his patients anyway. Even himself. I don’t know why I’m using a masculine pronoun. I must be sexist-masochist.

• People who live in the past usually includes, but are not limited to: people with terminal illness, Nazi supporters, Republicans, people who use a manual typewriter, historians, your grandparents living in the country, monarchy advocates, Catholics, the villagers in the Shyamalan film The Village, and heartbroken, bitter exes.

• Those who live in the present are either or all of the following:

1. -junkies who never had, don’t, and will never have enough money for their junk
2. -Justin Bieber
3. -those blinded by their youth/beauty/energy/bank account balance
4. -those afraid of responsibility
5. -buddhists, yogis, and other New Age enthusiasts, witches and satanists (pseudo or real) included
6. -those wanting to escape their pasts but are just as terrified of their future because it might be just the same as their pasts; think Mobius strip.
7. -those belonging in the Homeless Society
8. -those still on the recovery phase (of anything at all)

• The ones who live for the future includes only three types:

1. -Geeks (overly sci-fi fan or not)
2. -the Oppressed (i.e. war victims, aesthetically-oppressed a.k.a that ugly kid on your mom’s wallet picture 20-or-more years ago, oppressed by gravity’s force a.k.a obese people, Blondes, couples idiotic enough to raise kids, interestingness-oppressed a.k.a Bores, Hippies who say things like ”Our vacuous hoarding of stuff is a leash around our necks, a symbol of our insecurities and petty status-envy,“ while living in this consumer world.)
3. -the Misanthropes–very giddy to see the onset of Armageddon, this one. As if they don’t see it happening every day yet. Idiots…

Well that’s basically it. As you might have smartly noticed, I have classified humanity and gave us another set of labels to attach to each other. I love us all that much. And because of that, I want to end this with a note to all possible readers, bots and nonbots alike, that if you think I have been politically incorrect (like, I have been obese-ist, family-ist, or other -ist crap) and are wishing to learn my house had been a crashing site for the debris of another failed North Korean missile launch, I have five words for you:

Ain't life a bizarre contradiction?

P.S. The theory has just been updated! It now includes The Fifth Kind. Not much is certain except this group having learned to cross the boundaries of time, dimensions, and labels (ironic as that may sound, but yeah). Are you one of us? I’m still not asking you, idiots.

P.P.S. If you have not yet seen Blindness, please, PLEASE DO.

I Went Out and Saw…Ghosts

What makes people people?

Being privileged could sometimes be a matter of perspective. Some argue it’s always. Counting your blessings and curses and seeing that the good stuff outweighs the bad could make one feel privileged somehow. And yet do we really count our blessings or is it just advice we give to comfort people who are on the brink of tying their nooses?

More often than not, I find myself questioning everything, and the meaning behind anything at all. Are there aliens? What happens to you after you get sucked by a black hole? How big could an anus get? Is there a life after death or do I just get reincarnated into a microbe? Don’t you tell me I’m alone in using such questions for self-interrogation. Anyway, I asked the first question in this post because of one true experience.

Days ago, I braved myself to see the world. Yes, I actually went out of the house. And not only that, I went to the busiest portion of the city where the majority of the people you’d see are the dirt poor.

Financially.

I thought at first it’s only the lack of financial prosperity, but when I looked closer I saw that the saddest thing is not how shabbily they dress, not even how they work in a space where you can literally smell the scent of shit wafting constantly, not even when I never saw these people give out a genuine smile to another person, no. I’m okay with a non-smiling person most times–I do that a lot myself. It’s the way they look at nothing, the nothingness of space, with eyes that reflect exactly that.

I thought I was not seeing people but their ghosts.

Not that I actually know how real ghosts look like. I still don’t know whether I’m lucky or not for that but I know seeing one would spook me out. So, determined to prove I was not in the ghost plane, I poked the watch repairman.

I actually touched something solid! But then he turned to me with those eyes. Nothing changed; it’s as hollow as ever.

That day, poverty stared at me. And I looked back.

So…

What makes people people? I don’t know, but despair seems to be a part of it. At least if those creatures I saw are actually people. Heh, I know they are–despair had already been an acquaintance to me, too.

But what I saw was already an excess.

I never intended to count my blessings. Forcing myself to look at reality that day made me do it nonetheless. Money is already a part of humanity, but we shouldn’t let it get the best of us. I know I am more privileged than some of those people–that I could still eat three times and even have some spare time to blog–so it’s easier for me to say that. Maybe. But I won’t take it back.

If it’s any consolation, people who have lots of money never escape despair either. It’s part of not just humanity, but of life. The earth despaired when Michael Jackson died (it did!), mama turtle despaired when a heron ate her newly-hatched turtling (or she didn’t because she wasn’t even there).

What I’m saying is, it’s normal to feel despair. But we should not let it defeat us because as long as you’re still [technically] alive you’ve got a shot at changing things. Yes, even the whole miserable condition you are living now.

Even despair.

It just really pains me seeing people, even total strangers, look at the world with those empty eyes. Is life really such a dreary phenomenon for them? It’s all such a waste. We don’t have the certainty of another life except this one we currently have. You might believe in an all-powerful benefactor or not but you’ve got to admit that life is a gift–one that doesn’t last. So I don’t really see the point of living it like you’d rather be dead.

All of us–rich, poor, ugly, beautiful, black, white, yellow, red, straight, crooked–are vulnerable to despair. But it’s up to you to wallow in it. Or you could always choose to look at the lighter side and might actually be happy.

And then, it might only be my perspective…

Past Encounters: The Wimpy ‘Lil Weirdo

This gallery contains 1 photo.

Childhood is not childhood unless you’ve become either (or both!) of the two–the bully or his favorite butt. Yes, I’m talking about how you were such a weirdo the meanest-looking kid always get to taste/spit on your lunch. And how you could never wait to get out of your hometown because no matter what valuable …

Talking to Strangers: The Lost Art

I am not what certain types of people would call approachable–I learned that as early as kindergarten. Earlier this day, a guy tried to talk to me on the ride home; nothing important, just small talk and the attempts of getting my number. This happens to me a lot. It doesn’t point out how much of a looker I am, because I’m not, but rather how much I attract creeps. Basically, it’s because of the uterus-possession thing. Believe me, people will sense it if you have other intentions besides harmless talk. Of course, some people’s purpose behind anything they do is to find a bedmate. I’m not talking about those people. Okay, I’ll include them, but what I’m really talking about is people in general.

The guy tried to start a conversation with this line, “So where do you live?” Ding! That’s CreepAlertNo.1. Seriously–not even a “hi/hey” or a smile or the usual Weather Line? No, you rush to the ‘Where Do You Live’ part. Aside from revealing you have stalker tendencies, you’re also disclosing how you’re so used to getting your way and have not yet met Subtlety. That works for some, but not everyone–especially me. Of course, being a member of society who answers direct questions when asked, I answered him without going into details. Inside my head, I was saying “Please let him stop, please let me look like I don’t want to talk, like I found something disgusting, particularly him…”

Then he asked, “You really live there? Where in particular?” HE. WANTS. DETAILS. That’s absolutely CreepAlertNo. 2. I mean, come on, if you really want to talk, don’t start off by asking too many personal details–especially about where I live! Are you not familiar with horror/suspense movie plots? I am. It’s enough to make any sane person paranoid to divulge their addresses to complete strangers, much more to strangers who look like you. Let’s be honest: looks do matter. You don’t have to look like Chris Evans to want me to talk to you (but I’d love it if you do). All I’m asking is for you to be somehow hygienic and not make the world a dirtier/smellier place because you exist.

And it would also help if you wouldn’t have CreepAlertNo. 3 a.k.a Being a Pest.

I didn’t mean that to be police-ist or anything (well, maybe I do…). Anyway, that question made me rush into my room when I got home, stare into something, and ask: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, do I look like a fucking policeman’s wife at all?”

I despaired. I don’t mean any offense, honestly, but my mental image of a policeman’s wife would be a serious looking missus way older than the jeans and shirt, flip-flops-wearing me. (yes, I stereotype). Maybe it’s my glasses? Specs make most people look older. But then I saw The Ring. On my left hand, you could always see a watch and a ring on the ring finger, you know, the “Wedding Ring”. Ha! So that was what gave him an idea I could be married, why to a policeman I don’t know. Maybe he just thought policemen marry young girls if they could (yes, I just called myself young).

I wouldn’t blame him for it though.

To sum it up, if you want to make a conversation with anyone at all, try to: 1.Look “safe”/like you’re not a crackhead out on a stabbing spree. 2. Look for the right person to talk with; someone who looks like he/she might be interested, not someone with headsets on. 3. Don’t start anything without a smile or a ‘hi’ or something generic/casual first, idiot–90 percent of the things in this world is Foreplay. 4. If all else fails, don’t be a pest, and go look for your next victim.

And 5? Don’t call any uterus-bearing specie a policeman’s wife. Unless you’re pretty damn sure she is.

The History of HiNaD a.k.a The Boringest Title/Blog Post Ever

“Whoa–this guy can WRITE!”

It was the second set of words I told myself last December 2011 when I came upon his blog. The first set was rather unintelligible. He expressed his ideas with humor, wrote intelligently, and with an uncanny mix of cynicism and sanguinity. Needless to say, I was hooked. And I was amazed by the number of people engaged in an entertaining and clever dialogue in the comments section.

I had no idea what WordPress is before that, nor did I have any know-how in blogging. I was just surfing the net; bored with Facebook egotism, and yet vowing to eat a plastic fork before I touch a single textbook during that Christmas break. So I continued mutilating the mouse, and through a series of unfortunately forgotten web pages, I clicked a link to his post. When I saw the possibilities blogging could do, I wanted in.

So I signed up right then. I explored how WordPress works, and I found it surprisingly easy; surprising since I always consider myself computer-dumb. But then, anything is relatively easy when you want it enough.

I didn’t write anything until April the next year, though. The reason is simple: I felt insecure about my writing.

It was the last semester in my four years of college, and during those four years I never really wrote anything other than those related to my field of study. I kept a journal but it was a requirement, and by that point I grew to hate any word with the prefix require-. So I burned that journal as soon as I’m done with that certain subject.

SHORT VERSION: College sapped the creative writing worm in me.

LONG VERSION: Back in high school, I was actually part of the school paper. Years before that, in my sixth grade, there was a line saying “I want to be a writer someday,” under my photo in the yearbook (I should have written something more practical but you know how idiotic sixth-graders are). I grew up loving books, and with it grew the love for writing. As what is often the case, they were almost inseparable. I almost forgot that love when I studied Nursing. Maybe because the course took up most of my time and energy, maybe there were lots of distractions (believe it or not, I was a normal person with a social and, uhurm, love life). Maybe I just used up most of the rest of my time hogging my sleeping nook. Whatever the reasons were, I stopped writing–the kind that’s done just for the mere love of it.

I don’t claim to be good at anything other than eating, but being out of practice for something in about four years could make you apprehensive to start again. But during April last year, a new graduate stuck in her mom’s house with a head full of ideas and a pocket full of dust, I can’t even start my exploration of the real world.

Before I knew it, boredom became the anthem of my life (well that and frustration, confusion, ubiquitous angst/what-is-my-place-in-this-world drama, et cetera, et cetera and so forth).

Choosing between mutilating my carotid artery with a nail clipper and humiliating myself by writing my first ever blog post on my actual birthday, I chose the latter.

Thus, in a way, HiNaD became my twin.

It was an idiotic move, I know. Who else but an idiot would pick the same birthday as himself for his blog? I could have celebrated two birthdays in a year and get double the greetings to satisfy my ego. But instead I chose to deny myself the privilege. Oh well, I blame the genes. I didn’t become an idiot by myself, you know.

Anyway, it was real fun from there on.

I have grown not only as a blogger, but as a writer and person indeed.  I wrote stuff I would normally not dare write about [my] family, my real life friends, and my country–one quite droll, the other rather serious. I wrote about the difficulty of being good, and made fun of old timers, calling them Satan in disguise.  I learned that every Homo Sapiens has hypocrite blood.  I encountered rude bloggers a.k.a trolls, and dissected their rudeness while mentioning a four-letter word ten times in a post. Even then, there were times that I couldn’t care less and just posted something stubbornly silly.

I also wrote about how it’s much easier to mock everything than to discuss our true feelings, and how I thought I was mentally disturbed.  I discovered that professional doctors really believe happiness IS a disease (I KNOW, RIGHT?!). Then I tried to answer the question “Who am I?” and failed miserably. So instead I wrote about something I don’t know how to categorize…

But before all that, there was this mediocre stick man comic with a rather nice story to tell. Speaking of storytelling, *blushes* I rather wrote lots of them short/very short stories, my babies. For a collection–TotWK–I collaborated with Landix, a wonderful artist, bless him. I didn’t even realize I can write “horror” effortlessly until someone pointed it out here in HiNaD, bwaha!

And oh, yes! I discovered I rather like ‘em Goths. That and a lot of other very amazeballs stuff.

Wow, I did write lots considering I was practically on a hiatus for about four (?) months last year (I was preparing for the licensure exams). Looking back and reading those pieces/attempts-to-make-sense by my mind, I still find myself believing in almost exactly the same truths. Hmm, it’s a wonderful feeling, come to think of it…

(Oh geez, my head’s getting bloated with the awesomeness of Me again. Good thing I only review my blogging achievements once a year, haha!)

All of those things mentioned are wonderful, rewarding stuff–enough to make me continue doing this bloggy thing for as long as I could. But the BESTEST part of it all was/is/would still be meeting you.

Yes, YOU.

Squiggly Lines

It started with a drawing.

Sonja’s A Child WIthin.

Check out Sonja’s work here.

Actually, no. It wasn’t even a drawing but a few squiggly lines. But someone loved those squiggly lines, loved them very much, and it was the best thing that happened to them. Because of it, they were given life.

They became Mistyr Dovclothe.

Oh, she wasn’t called Mistyr Dovclothe then. Nobody knows her name before she became Mistyr. But it must have been a happy name, for that was what she was. The first memories she ever had was being loved. That is enough to make anyone happy. She laughed a lot then, too. The littlest things fascinate her. Her life was simple–you know, being made up of an assortment of squiggly lines–but it was filled with wonder, adventure, appreciation, and–you guessed it–love.

Eventually she grew up.

She begun to meet the folks adults already know well. She hoped and expected for the best, then she met Disappointment; a cold and whiny lady, that Dis was. She looked at the people around her and the amazing lives they led. She reached out for she wanted to touch, to be a part of their lives. But then she met Rejection. Where Dis was cold and whiny, Rej didn’t even talk to her. The best she got was a fleeting glance before he turned his gaze, plunking her back in the ignore corner.

But they didn’t stop her from seeing the beauty around her, for it was still there no matter how obscure it has become. She strived hard to find and to create beauty, for some time after meeting Dis and Rej, or maybe in-between, she unknowingly equated beauty with love.

She misses Love. Sometimes she asks herself ‘Where did L go?’ ‘Have I wandered too far that L can never reach me now?’

She wanted to find L, and so she created beauty.

She became Beauty.

Then something took change. She saw Rej less and less, and began meeting new folks. It was Admiration she often saw. At first she thought she has found L at last, for L and Ad looked very much alike. Time passed. And she discovered they have never been the same.

By this time, she and Dis have become close acquaintances. Hanging out with Dis often, she shared more. She gave more of herself to the cold, whiny Dis that eventually she started to become like her.

It was then that she met Failure. She never liked Failure though. Fai always makes her feel that everything is wrong and nothing will ever be right again. She tried her best to avoid Fai and sometimes she succeeds. Sometimes.

I’m not sure when it happened (maybe somewhere between all these things?), but she found The Hall of Mirrors. She had never really looked at herself before. She looked at her reflection, yes, but always as a glimpse. Never too deeply.  Never questioning.

In The Hall of Mirrors, she looked at herself for the first time.

She saw Mistyr Dovclothe staring back at her. Mistyr Dovclothe is beautiful. She is very hard; made up of many different layers–dark shadows, and light ones, and sharp lines, and delicate curves, and much, much more.

Mistyr Dovclothe is a work of art.

But sometimes, sometimes she misses those squiggly lines.

Protected: Chasing That Glittery Thing

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5 Reasons Why

…you should purchase this book:

1. It’s FREE.

2. It’s FREE.

3. It’s TOTALLY HILARIOUS.

4. It’s only for today.

5.You’d be an idiot not to.

So get it now right HERE!

*You need a Kindle to read this which, if you don’t have it, could be found here:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=dig_arl_box?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771

Seriously. You should check this guy out! I know you want to do it. Of course you do–don’t you find it extremely funny to laugh at the wackiest misfortunes of others all the time? ON STAGE?Admit it. And as a famous person with the initials T.B once said, “Once you go Tim, you’ll only ever want him.“

I’d like to talk more, really, but shouldn’t you be clicking on some links already? Thought so.

Can you be any more obnoxious?

We Need More Dominics

If you could watch this until around the five-minute mark, you would never regret it.

Most people don’t.

 

What would you have done?

Coming Out

I’m not gay.  I think.

But I’m still coming out from a different angle. Something like my father is a Filipino. My mother is a Filipino. I was born and currently live in the Philippines. So what does that make me? [Insert highly obnoxious Filipino joke here]

Hee hee, because we’re all that and more…oh, much, much more!

So I guess that makes it official: I am a Filipino. And why am I telling you this? I decided it’s about time the world (yeah…because I’m so popular) have a good inkling of what’s going on in some 7,107 islands (that’s during low tide) near the Pacific. Maybe make it a regular feature?

You may wonder why it’s taken me so long. You see, I don’t want to be dead yet.

Allow me to explain: I tend to write with teeny doses of, uh, I think you call it sarcasm. And I like to point out the good things as well (if not more) as faults. And I love to have my fun at other people’s expense as much as mine. So why would that kill me?

Other than some deity might struck his lightning bolts at me for violating the universal Good/Nice Girl Law, it’s more because of the fact that FILIPINOS ARE A TOUCHY BUNCH. Stereotyping? Pfft. Well of course I didn’t mean everyone–just the majority of like 90%.

Perhaps that should be Filipino Fact (FF) #1. But let’s make it official and turn it into a heading before I expand.

FF #1: Filipinos don’t take criticisms (in all its forms) well.

Sure, those with liberal minds, a good sense of humor, and those who lived and were exposed to western culture for a time have developed a thicker hide (and not even all). But the rest, especially those who lived here all their lives are really onions. Specifically, onions that bite.

Yes, I used a meme. I’m that shameless.

 

Let’s start with the mild. Suppose you say something like, “Filipinos hurt my eye–I wonder how they pass as humans?” Or maybe not. Suppose you’re a non-Filipino and say,

“Filipinos are all talk and no walk. Perhaps they could achieve some real progress if they start to act things out.” (If you are a Filipino, uhm, it would be a different story. Fact.)

Instead of acting out, oh, you’ll get more talk. You’ll hear how they’re really doing something to back on their words (instead of the more effective way of just letting you see it) and say how near they are in achieving success in whatever their goal is. And if that’s not enough, they’ll point out why you’re the one who’s all talk–in great detail–and will demand some proof that you are not. Show us your life’s work, perhaps? They’ll go into such lengths until they’re satisfied and finally convince themselves and anyone listening why you have no right to say that single line (instead of refuting the real issue).

If that’s not enough drama, try making fun of a Filipino who’s renowned in the international scene.

Say it’s Charice (if you even heard of her).

“That Filipino girl can sing well. But she’s ugly as hell.”

Say it’s Manny Pacquiao.

Isn’t this just romantic?

It would suffice to say that they wouldn’t rest until you are dead.

That’s if you are NOT Filipino. (Again, if you are a Filipino it would be a different story. Because then it would be okay. Hilarious even. Because that’s how much we love bashing our own. Isn’t it ironic? Alanis got it so right…)

Perhaps it is all rooted to Pinoy Pride (Pinoy is a local term for Filipinos, has a variant Pinay referring to Filipinas–the females. But you can just use Pinoy, really. Or stick to calling us Filipinos. Or Asian Monkeys if you feel your life is too peaceful).

Filipinos have this real strong sense of pride But for most, this is really a faux pride (that’s for another post).

One way you could see that is if anything related to our nationality had its turn in the international 15 minutes of fame. Say some Filipino artist/athlete was acclaimed internationally; or won an international beauty pageant; or even those who only have part-Filipino blood in their veins (think Jessica Sanchez , Vanessa Hudgens, Bruno Mars, Enrique Iglesias, Coach Eric Spoelstra…right, I think you get it); or when some international newspaper praised a Filipino product, professional, or praised something that was made in China and became popular in China but has really started in some Filipino’s mind (oh trust me, we can get farther than that!)–it would eventually end up in National TV and Filipinos would start feeling good about themselves once again. As if some good has finally happened to the world. Like they were the ones getting their 15 minutes of fame. (There’s a psychological term for this “associative sense of fame” that I can’t remember because I’m an idiot, sorry.)

And there’s really nothing wrong about that. Why not allow people to feel, at least once, glad that they’re alive? But sometimes, some people could just take it way too far, too personally (i.e. sending hell’s angels to anyone who dissents, threatens, criticize said object of pride, such as what happened to Mr. Baby-baby-Oh here.)

“Please, good sir, please don’t CASTRATE me!”

Uh, wrong link. HERE.

That’s the core of the issue: majority of the Filipinos take everything TOO personally.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE CAN’T TAKE A JOKE?!? IT’S YOU FUCKING RETARDS WHO HAVE  TASTELESS JOKES FROM YOUR SMELLY, UNHYGIENIC, WORM-INFESTED BITS OF !@$6!@#$% YOU MOTHAFUCKAAAAAS!!!!

Err…let’s take it some notches down and focus on the Filipino individual.

Criticize something about a Filipino, say you told him off for being too late too often and he’ll think you have some personal grudge against him other than just his work ethics. Or say you praise him for handling things effectively, he’ll interpret that as some form of personal affection. And that’s just on a small scale. Filipinos have a difficulty in extracting their emotions from seeing things objectively. It’s ingrained on them at a young age and next to impossible to remove from their psyches.

But that’s not always a bad thing.

Because of this real strong sense of self-attachment, they have the most admirable traits of empathy. That is why you can see many Filipinos going out of their way to be polite. They don’t want to offend anyone for anything as long as they can help it. Most Filipino comedians would rather play with slapstick than blurt out crude jokes one after the other (except the more “modern” ones). They’re really nice people at heart. And they have no qualms on showing it, too. That’s why they easily hurt if this niceness is not shown back. Or shown with antipathy, criticism and their cousins.

Or maybe I’m just an idiot who doesn’t get out of the house much and got every single thing wrong. And I have to worry now of people hacking me down as soon as I get out of the front door. Why do we make all these problems for ourselves anyway?

Wouldn’t be much of an idiot if I know.

The Blog Post of REBELations

(Children, what business are you doing here? But read if you want. I’m not your saggy mother.)

Families are such a pain. Everyone knows that. Only robots would deny that. Do robots even have families? I wonder when they’d invent robots that are actually capable of reproduction. People do it. Animals do it. Plants don’t have sex with each other. Let’s see you rebuff that.

This is NOT proof that plants bang each other. Do not be deceived.

Robots would deny hating their families because they make the most perfect sets there are. That’s because every family member is perfect. If you’re the unlucky one who has this dent on one side of your chin then fear not because the rest of your family will just kill you, and from your remains make the most perfect set of ultra-modern furniture. Why do robots dispose of each other too easily? That’s because there’s less gore involved. You cannot say the same thing about humans. Gut one man’s stomach enough to have his intestines spilling out and you’ll know why. You think intestines are cramped inside your body for no reason? They’re shit vessels. Opening up a person’s body is STINKY business. That’s one thing horror movies don’t tell you. Trust me, I know. You’re welcome.

Look at how much they want to kill each other.

Another reason why robot families are so great is because they don’t get nasty diseases. Only injuries. “Mom, my thumb hurts. I think it’s broken.” Robot mom will just chop it off and replace it with a new one. “Mom, my thumb hurts. It’s turning blue. I think I got tetanus.” “What?! Oh, my poor, poor, baby…” See? That’s just an injury and humans can already get so worked up and resort to hysterics instead of just solving the problem. It’s embarrassing. And when one family member gets sick, all the remaining cast are often affected. Just imagine what would happen if Timmy gets this actual disease called Filariasis. “Mom, my nose is getting bigger. And longer. See, I can touch it with my elbows! Cool!” Human mom will take one look at you and either collapse or start thinking it was elephant semen that got its way inside her.

Dad would kill himself because an elephant fucked his wife. Twin sister would realize her thighs would always remain as it is because of her elephant DNA. Boyfriends would never do the famed 69 with her for fear of breaking their necks or dying of asphyxia. This would depress her and she’ll choose to follow dad to the grave. Humans are idiots and idiocy grows at a vast rate in numbers, especially if brought about by genetics. Humans should NEVER form blood-related families or any families for that matter just to cut the risk. It’s difficult to change your genes too so there’s no way around it. But humans are too much of an idiot to realize that.

Poor Timmy.

Robot families are the best families too since they all exist in nuclear form. Nuclear families are very rarely composed of more than ten members. If one robot wants to cut ties permanently, he only has less than ten members to kill. Or deactivate. Or whatever it is you call robots do to stop the existence of another robot. On the other hand, humans have all ridiculous types of families from extended to communal to et cetera, et cetera. It’s a crime to have a family that big. It’s CRAZY!

Look, it’s already a challenge to try and get along with your direct blood kin, how much more if you’re compelled to be civilized (a very difficult skill. Civilization is merely an invention of scared human weaklings to prevent being eaten by the brutish caveman next door.) to your bossy, know-it-all, bag-of-wrinkles of a grandmother? Or your psychotic aunt who has interreligious gods as her imaginary friends? Or that second-degree uncle who believes families exist so that you have someone to pay for your debts or save your ass while you waste your life away being a jobless, cocaine-snorting, excreta of society? Tell me that’s NOT crazy and I’ll voodoo you until you think your tongue is a big, slimy worm trying to get inside your body so that you’ll pull it out yourself and chop it into pieces. Ha!

The reason why asian families suck. UGH. Are they forming their own community? And they all make you think they’re happy. DO NOT BE DECEIVED.

Robot families are also perfect because they don’t feel emotions at all (sci-fi enthusiasts, bash me now). And they’re also incredibly, supercomputer-smart. Imagine not having to feel any distracting emotions every nanosecond of your entire life! And not even needing an abacus to count the fingers in your mechanical hand! The ability to think like a genius is no different from feeling, really – just minus the hassles. Human families are such a pain because there are emotions involved. Pain is even an emotion – unnecessary shit. Take emotions away from the equation and what do you get? Great. Now you’re thinking. Just because the word equation is mentioned you look from side-to-side, up-down looking for help. That’s how much of an i-di-ot you are. You even take it personally to be called one. Pathetic.

The Perfect Robot Family. Complete with the perfect robot dog in the center.

I think those are enough reasons to validate my stance: Exterminate human families and let the robots rule the planet once and for all!

Hail robots!

Oh, and lastly? The greatest reason why robot families are so very perfect is because of the fact that they DO NOT EXIST. That means humans will continue to breathe polluted air, copulate, merge as families, and make each other’s lives miserable until some freak disease that will make the Black Plague look as simple indigestion consume us all. Except the cockroaches, of course.

OH YEAH!  *fist pump*

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¨¨¨ The third picture is a real, non-edited image of human being whose name is actually not Timmy but Huang Chuncai. It saddens me how some people would have to endure that much suffering. It kind of reminds us how really cruel life can be if she wants to be. AND serves another reminder why you and I are so goddamn lucky human beings despite our comparably measly whinings, you ungrateful shit.

Poppatu

In a familiar town called Normullsy, there lived a boy named Poppatu. Poppatu grew big and strong, with arms and legs that’s lean and long. Of the things in his body that grew and grew, his forehead turned out to be the longest of all.

 

With five feet long of magnificent lobe, his head stood out from the rest of the world. Like a big, red pustule on the face of a queen, Poppatu could so easily be seen. And this little fact he wouldn’t have mind, if to his harmless, long forehead the people had been kind.

But mocked, and jeered, and with rotten eggs thrown, of that quite long forehead Poppatu want to get rid. Whatever he did though it so stubbornly stuck. Poppatu wished he had different luck.

Hurt and wishing he’d never been born, Poppatu resolved to leave ‘em all. He packed some clothes, some bacon and milk, and one moonless night in that town he left.

The next day the town awoke, attacked by a fleet from the sea led by a horrifying king. Before noon the whole town was sieged. All the people face a bitter end, it seemed.

But there is hope left, for the king of the fleet said their lives would be spared if, and only if, they could present to him a sight so rare that he haven’t seen or even to think of he didn’t dare.

And so at once to Poppatu’s house, the mayor went, bringing the rest of the town. “Hurray we’re safe!” they thought with glee, only to find that of Poppatu or his forehead there was none.

So the normal town of Normullsy – so usual, so practical, with not an icky bit of weird – had nothing to present to the horrifying king. “Off with their heads!” was the last shout they heard. Woman and child, men young and old, on that bright, sunny noon met their end, ‘twas told.

And Poppatu, that lonely old boy, with five feet of weirdness atop of his head, could have saved from doom a normal town whole, if only they have not made him feel so very small.

But now Poppatu’s gone with his forehead tall; even I do not know where he is or if he lives at all. And I wish there is more to this sorry tale, than death and fools, and rejection and pain.