the
doorbell rang noisily. you know the sound; it is one of those
irritating noise that always seem to wake you up at the wrong time. you
hated that sound so much you could kill whoever invented doorbells. it
is six a.m. on a sunday morning, no one rings a bell on that ungodly
hour! you did not dare open your eyes, hoping that your flatmates would
rush out their rooms and open the door. it did not take another long
“tuuuuuuuuuuttttt” sound before you gave up and sat straight up. they
would not hear it; and you know it is not their fault that they did not
and you did. no one told you to pass out on the sofa and spend the
night there. the bed, your bed, is probably aching for your warmth more
than a sex-maniac is aching for sex; you have not slept on it for quite
a while.
you opened the door and saw him
there. God knows you haven’t seen the man for years. the last time you
saw him was he walking out on you and your boyfriend.
“hi.”
“hi.”
you
stood there, holding the door in midway and stared at him. he stared
back at you and your bedroom-made hair and oily-dried up face. he
looked quickly at your party clothes and it was obvious he wondered if
you just got in.
“i dozed off on the
sofa.” you said unsolicitedly and wished that you did not. you are in
no way obligated to explain to him why you look like that. if someone
has to do some explaining, it wasn’t you definitely.
“i
can see that.” he replied and smiled at you. and in just an instant,
you remember everything that happened five years ago, as if you are
watching the movie in a slow motion-fast forward kind of way.
an
author once told you that that is how the mind works. it just takes one
insignificant detail and it will bring you back to memory lane.
you
wanted to ask him all the why’s you can think of. but you chose to wash
your face and comb your hair and change into a more appropriate
clothing wear. by the time you faced him again, the questions did not
seem attractive anymore.
“i am getting married.”
Inspired by strips by Shelly Soneja and the pure genius of my cousin Pau
in his recent Detective Man comic strip (which I wish he would make
more of), here’s a comic strip, or whatever the hell this is.
I have given up on finding good food here in
Ortigas. A couple of months ago when I worked in Eastwood; dammit,
I’m salivating just thinking about it–there were a lot of reasonably
priced restaurants that serve really good food. There was this
totally sweet Filipino-style food court near my building; it was
nondescript– on first glance, not different than any of the
restaurants all over the area with its simple neon sign and homey
feel to it; but the food was dirt cheap yet so delectable.
What makes them different? The sauce. Everybody
knows that as far as Filipino food are concerned, the sauce make the
food. This is not negotiable. Their sauces were distinctive and taste
delightfully peppery. I’m no food connoisseur but from their sauces,
I could taste something that was made up of many different flavors
and spices intertwined and the end result was me saying
“Yummmmmeeeheeeheee! Can someone stick a broom handle into my
occipital cavity while I eat this shit? Wait, I think I just creamed
my pants. Anybody have some tissue?”
Here in the Ortigas center however, or at least
in the vicinity of Emerald Avenue where I work, the choices are
basically narrowed down to the two ubiquitous fast food giants:
Jollibee and McDonald’s. This pisses me off. I like Filipino food and
I can’t get it, not as easy as I would like it to be at least. I’m
sure I could get really good food around here but I have to walk all
the way out to Galleria or Megamall but surprise surprise! I’m too
lazy. And walking makes me sweat like a motherfucker which is
something I don’t want when I’m about to consume vast quantities of
food.
You know how some people have weird
toilet habits? Well I have a REALLY fucking weird one: when I take a
leak, I don’t unbuckle my belt and unbutton my pants; I just pull down
my zipper and whip out my bird (henceforth referred to as Joyce). Now
Joyce maybe less than an inch long hard and
about as big around as a pencil but forcing it through the serrated
opening of an unzipped fly still hurts. I am lazy like that so sue me.
Asshole.
Suffice it to say that Joyce, in all her lilliputian glory, can be
quite uncontrollable when not harnessed by strong,
capable hands. She tends to shoot urine wildly in every direction like
the most amazing, berserk vietnam war veteran in the world. She does
this quite indiscriminately too, as she did a while ago by shooting
upward and creating a wet blotch on my blue shirt. She also thought it
funny to squirt a few more drops as I wrestled her back into my tighty
whities therefore creating another small, albeit disgusting splotch on
my gray pants.
Now I’ve learned some pretty important lessons from this experience:
Smoking while taking a leak is not a good idea.
Having a cigarette on your left hand and a coffee mug on your right WHILE taking a leak is definitely not a good idea.
Running
into a cute girl from the production company next door with your shirt
and the crotch part of your pants drenched in urine is not fucking
good.
Saying something retarded like “Hi miss beautiful” to redeem yourself is just. plain. STUPID.
Now Joyce, baby, you know I love you;
but it’s things like this that make me wish that you’d just wither
and fall off. Bitch.
every
thursday, i wake up earlier than usual. it is not so much of the
desire, rather, of necessity because my car is color coded. and until
Switters came, i so hate thursdays. you would understand, i know;
especially in days like today when there is an unmistakably
Christmas-tic blow in the wind and the blanket stays comfortably warm.
and
then Switters came. i still hate thursdays; but it is just the waking
part of it that i hate. i look forward to the one-hour meeting at
petron stop over station along SLEX; i look forward to the aroma of the
starbucks hot chocolate or the pancakes at pancake house or the
longganisa at Mcdo. and the time with Switters.
you
know him already. he’s thirty five and he’s amazing; and you know how i
am with amazing guys, i just cannot resist them. if you meet him, you
would not be able to. particularly today, he talked to me about neutral
angels and getting drunk with excommunicated nuns in the desert outside
Syria. sometimes, i cannot dig Switters but it is of that fact that i
so love him. he talked about Domino, too. a lady ten years his senior
and whom he is very fond of. i fancy he might have loved her but with
switters, that is all you can do: fancy. i fancy he does not even know
what love means as it meant to all of us. wait until you watch him talk
about it. i fancy you’ll drool over his logic.
i
remember a few thursdays ago, he told me, “three things are certain:
there’s life, there’s death. and in between, there’s maintenance.”
Mike "Fucking" Villar
"a Manila-based blogger made famous by his Atrocities of Friendster series, a regular feature he publishes on his blog where he mercilessly criticizes and mocks pictures of ugly people he stumbles upon on popular social networking site, Friendster. Although a lot of people are offended by what he writes, long-time readers of his blog regard him as a brilliant satire writer."
-Taken from my WikiBios page
