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It starts the same every night.  We’d watch a movie and before he gets too sleepy he would start touching here, touching there and I’ll try my best to look like I concentrate on the movie but in reality I was just thinking, “I hope I’ll have an orgasm.” Just as the car the cute …

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Let’s call it: — I.    Once upon a time, I knew these people.  And then.  And that. II. The Spider He looked like he was biting something hard inside that mouth but then he always looked like that.  Once, perhaps about twenty or so years ago, they said he looked more at ease.  Circumstances …

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To commemorate my first month in this new city with this new job and a new boyfriend sleeping pattern, I would like to brag about successfully fooling people into paying me for making a list and for making up stories.

Oh yes, WordPress. I am a bona fide professional writer.

*laughs maniacally*


Today, I am officially a published science fiction writer. Like, this is soooooo weird. *laughs again* I never really thought I could pull this off. I am no science woman. Sure, I like reading about science when I actually have the time during late nights but I am no Asimov or Clarke or Bradbury. I am just a Duptsi. I like reading about science fiction though. Not to sound elitist, but I think the really good ones in the genre are high-end brain food. Stuff that make you question the future–heck, the universe. I read science fiction stories and can’t help but feel this sense of wonder and dread and excitement for the possibilities that await us.

Blah, blah–in short, I dig SF. I am not a science fiction writer though. I am too dumb for that.

But yes, I tried creating my own stuff. And like almost everything in my life, it started pretty awful (Ugh, all those rejections. *smirks* But that’s for another day…).

What matters now is that today, somebody thought it wasn’t so bad after all.

You could read the story here:

Now about that list: did you know that you could actually make money writing lists? Listverse is the most popular out there right now, I think. They pay you $100 for every list they accept. I have tried submitting to them something I wrote about science but the editor or first reader–whoever read it–rejected it saying it’s not interesting enough. Oh well. To each his own.

But should you really stop after one failed submission? Nope. DO NOT EVER FUCKING STOP as long as you still have somewhere you could place it your stuff on. Stubbornness pays off some days if you do it right.

So yes, that list is now up on this site right here:

I am sooooooooooo professional.

*laughs maniacally. again*

Really, I’m just so happy to finally have my very first story published. That is soooooo awesome. Like, you know, I really might have a shot in this writing thing after all.

Not that I have any intention of stopping though. Stubbornness pays if you do it right, remember?

(And well, the boyfriend would break up with me if I stop writing. I still need him right now so that’s not really an option. He buys me books and lets me eat pizza, and pizza matters, so…)


So I’m in a new city with a new job that I have no experience of  doing at all before.

I am actually excited.

This is my first time totally going out of my comfort zone. My family’s a plane or boat ride away, and I have nobody here with me except for my increasing appetite. And a roommate who’s in the same situation. And my bee, of course.

I don’t know what to expect tomorrow when I start work and it’s scary and exciting both at the same time. But they paid for my flight. And my hotel accommodation. And no one farted in the plane. All in all, I think everything is going rather well.

I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

See, things don’t go well for me most of the time, so this makes me suspicious. What has life in store for me to punch me in the gut any day now? That I would actually suck at job? That I have only one year left to live? That my boyfriend is actually gay?

Perhaps I should stop being such a neurotic.

It’s just so new, you know? It’s a welcome change though. I really shouldn’t worry myself because tomorrow my luck would probably start going its normal route again. For now though, I’m gonna enjoy the good stuff. That, and DF.

Bring it on.

Adult-ing Bee

I was a fat kid. Fact. I am still a fat kid at heart. Double fact. You want to make me hate and never forget you? Simple: just make the meanest fat insult you could muster and shove it to my pudgy face (prior to my visuaIizing your slow and cruel death by cannibalism ). Oh boy, it never fails–even though I have more of a diamond face now. See, the corners finally show up after losing some of those blobs over the years. However, I really think they just transferred to my thighs.

For many wasted minutes, hours, and even days on end, I would wish and daydream about just waking up one day finding all those excess blobs gone. Ooooh, so many wasted wishes on shooting stars! I could have wished to be rich and famous and successful and happy, but no, I wished to be skinny.Kids are so fucking stupid (no offense, kids).

Oh yes, I was so obsessed with being skinny. I think I did make progress, but it was a slow one. You see, I am lazy and I don’t really have that great of a motivation. To be honest, I wasn’t really morbidly obese. Just on the round side. I think if I had been much fatter, I would have worked harder and way skinnier now. Then again, I would have been the butt of even worse jokes and got deeper scars.

We all make our own excuses, don’t we?

Why did I even want to lose those fats? Like, really self, why?


I think, mostly, it was to feel better about myself. It was being made fun of that did the damage. Isn’t it always the culprit? Like, why would we even want to change the way we are if we don’t get ridiculed because of it? If fat people wouldn’t be mocked for being fat, would they even want to change? Most wouldn’t have. Eventually they might consider for health reasons. But if being laughed at for being fat is not a factor, I think fat people would be perfectly fine with their jiggly bits.

But as human beings, it’s our job to make other people hate themselves, right? Spreading self-hate is apparently part of the survival of the fittest master plan.  So off we go doing our duties, hurling insults to fellow humans!

Ugh, I am such a bad writer. The point of this piece was supposed to be answering the question, “Where do our fats go?” when that miraculous moment of shedding them actually happens. Obviously, I got lost in a mini-rant. So much of my life is spent on hating other people. I am such a human being.

I am really not angry tho. I am typing this with a smirk on my face. A smirk of pain. I wish the pain on my left foot would stop. You see, I have this condition where my own cells attack the other resident cells in my body causing inflammation to my peripheral blood vessels. No, it’s not lupus. (GAAAAH, I hope it’s not lupus!)

But I am a digress-er, I admit that.

Okay, business…

So, how do we lose our fats?

We lose them by praying for a miracle every night.

Really now. Let’s go technical, like where does all that blob go upon leaving our body? Do we lose them by using them as energy sources when we perform an activity? This is how most of us–doctors, dietitians, fitness trainers, couch potatoes and the like–would answer. And we’re apparently wrong.

If we are to lose 10 kilograms of fat, 8.4 of them apparently vanishes into thin air. Yep, we breathe ‘em out.

In a research article published by the British Medical journal, it was concluded by Robert Meerman and Andrew Brown that most of the fats we lose were excreted as carbon dioxide through the lungs (no, not through your farts). The rest of those blobs were converted to water, and we lose them through the body fluids we excrete such as in our pee, poo, sweat, tears, and um, I’m not sure but I think cum is included. It is a bodily fluid, right?


B-butt….I was told the fat was converted into muscle! That I lost it in my slimy poo! I was cheated!!! You’re saying I lost it (or wish I would lose it) through exhaling? Then I should just breathe harder then to get rid of more fats! That would be so much easier…right?

Wrong. Or right, if you want to end up in a hospital bed.

Exhaling more than is needed is actually bad for you since it causes hyperventilation, disrupting the delicate balance of electrolytes in our body that would result in palpitations and loss of consciousness.

So how are we supposed to take control of losing our fats when we can’t just breathe harder?

They apparently decided to ignore that question. Or you know, I have not researched well. But yes, that is the question that matters now.

What use is this finding if we can’t make use of it?

Oh good, we know how fats leave our body now. Breathe it out. But we can’t just do it as an exercise because we’d eventually pass out! So what are we going to do now? Revert to the old means of eating less, and exhausting ourselves more? Liposuction? Wishing to our non-existent fairy godmothers?

It seems that we’re back to the old ways of doing it really. Before those fats could exit our body, we need to break them down first–that is, to metabolize them through, um, through…working out and eating less–I GUESS!

Those researchers should have made it clearer to us!!!

And you think there is a fast, new solution, right?

I’m sorry, fellow fatties. But it seems we need to get up and work our asses off again.

Cheer up. You are not alone.

*feel the positive vibes I am sending your way*

Ugh, where’s that goddamn fairy godmother when you need one…



I have known Jesus for as long as I could remember. I’m not really sure what my first memory is anymore. (Do you know that your memories change every single time you try to remember them? Yeah. Science proved it. Nothing is ever reliable anymore. And yet we still bother. Go figure.)

Anyway, I could say in confidence that during that time, I was already aware of Jesus and the concept of a god.

Whenever I was in a tight spot then, or when I really wanted something, I always asked for his help. I was raised in a very faithful family, although I cannot say it is truly religious. But we believed in God. Everyone I knew then believes in God.

But my faith wasn’t really all that noble. I blamed God for a lot of things then. Oh yes, I blasphemed. I blamed God for all the shitty stuff that happened or was happening. And if I could do it to God, then why can’t I do it to my own mother? Or any other loved one?

I killed so many people in my mind already because I was very upset. But I couldn’t kill God. Because well, He/She/It’s God.

But I doubted. Oh wow, I have been a really good doubter this past couple of years.

How could there be a God when all these awful stuff is happening? We live in a dark, dangerous, and selfish world. Where we judge each other based on our skin colors and the stuff we post on our social media accounts. Where the obscenely rich exist in the same vicinity as the depressingly poor and is okay with it. Where people kill each other because of their gods. In a world where death and misery exist how could there be a god who supposedly cares?

I don’t know.

I don’t pretend to know.

But despite all that, despite all the wonderful discoveries and arguments of science against all things that religions stand for, I still believe there is something beyond human power and understanding. A God.

And I think that this God loves us.

I somehow talked about this with my very best friend in the whole damn world yesterday and he just laughed about it because I was kinda talking with effects from sleep deprivation. Anyway, I told him that I think love is the ultimate meaning. In a much confusing manner than that.

It started like this: if there is no god, then what exists before the Universe? Nothing? Can you really grasp the true extent of that nothing? Of that void? Because I can’t. Nothing like nothing is in that room is different like real, eternal nothingness. I tried so many times in different times in my life and I still can’t push far enough this concept without fearing for my sanity.

I think every one of us has this fear of that nothingness. Why do you think we are all afraid to die? Why do we try so hard to make meaning of everything? And in this effort of making meaning, what do we achieve?

I think, and here I theorize again, that love is the ultimate meaning. Love is that one ineffable thing we all aspire and perhaps, at some points, achieve.

And it exists in all forms, and all these forms flawed in their own ways, but every single phenomenon is beautiful.

Maybe love is just a device we construct out of fear from that nothingness, out of fear from being alone. Maybe. But I do not believe that everything, including love, just came from that nothing. I could not believe that. It is just so meaningless. What is the purpose of having something as beautiful as the whole goddamned, powerful, extraordinary universe exist and just make it all go back to nothing?

From nothing it started and to nothing it will all go back. Yeah, bullshit.

I know this is such a weak argument as to why I believe there is a God. But then I’m not trying to recruit you. I love science, and facts brought about by logic and experiment and research have caused me to doubt all religions. In fact, I am actively trying to convince myself that there is no god. But I just can’t.

I look at the wonders of the universe, the wonders of the world, and I find it hard to believe that there is no god. I look at the eyes of the people I love and I know I am looking at god. I close my eyes and listen to my own heartbeat and I know that there is a god.

We just can’t explain him/her/it yet. Because.

Oh, yeah. I need to end this properly…

Um, this was supposed to end with a Merry Christmas. Because you know, a time of love and all that. (By all that I meant the pressure to give each other material stuff because, that is so godly and amazing and emphasizes the true meaning of Christmas after all).

Nah, I want to greet everyone a Merry Christmas even if you do or don’t believe in God. Believer or not, I know we are all capable of love. Please, spread that.

And if you do believe, please spare a time to reflect. And offer a prayer of thanks. For everything.

Merry Christmas.

I’ve met with friends recently. Something which I don’t do very often because…I just kind of finally felt comfortable of not meeting people. (Is that something that comes with getting old?)

Anyway, point is, they felt like strangers mostly.

Does that happen to real friends–when you’re separated by distance and your schedules from your different jobs–does it always feel like you’re strangers again? Perhaps it would after spending years meeting almost every day. It’s the shared activities, that sense of bonding that you lost. You found yourselves together in the present and you feel like, hey, something just isn’t right.

I guess people do drift apart.

It is kind of sad really, since I don’t anymore think of these people as my friends. Sure we are nice to each other and will do each other favors and hangout if we feel like it, but there isn’t one of these people I would trust my deepest secrets with.

Nope, I haven’t had a friend I could trust with my life. Who I think could still accept me despite how fucked up I could be. And it’s not anyone’s fault but mine.

I mean, these are good people even if they are fond of selfies and actually making it public. But despite their varied gestures of saying “hey we’re your friends you can trust us with anything and we’ll still accept you”, I still can’t find it in myself to trust them.

Because people are fickle. And well, I’ve had a taste of betrayal. From one of these people I trusted most.

So I guess it is okay to still meet with people once in a while to be social. But don’t expect to find real friends among these vanity-riddled gatherings. Because I believe that label belongs to people who actually act it, to people who would not balk on you and would dip themselves in serious shit (Like you know something stupid, get caught smoking pot with you because you really really need to get high because a real friend does that–get you in trouble. Yeah, NO.) because they do care for you and want what’s best for you and not for what you could do for them.

Yeah, yeah, I believe I still have an old fashion idea of friendship. But that’s the only thing that works for me, so well.I’d rather have one Watson at my side than a hundred, um, network people as I’d rather call them. Because that’s how most people just function these days anyway, as your networks.

I’m so cynical I should die. But we all do anyway. That really sucks as a curse don’t you think?


She looked everywhere: at the train station, dumpster alleys, inside big black plastic bags and trash barrels, and piles of boxes which would soon serve as sleeping mats, but no, no kid was found. Being homeless means you have to do everything yourself; can’t trust the police to look for an eleven-month old baby of a nobody. So she looked, and looked, and didn’t sleep–until she found a tiny bluish foot jutting out from under a parked truck down the next block.

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 lbs, 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.



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