If
you don’t know already, I finally had the balls to take advantage of
the long weekend and go to the beach. This decision required a lot of
effort on my part as I have this fierce disliking towards the beach or
any other place that requires me to take off my shirt for that matter.
Why you ask? Because I’m clinically obese and I have the worst
documented case of cellulite going on with my body particularly on my
tummy and on my lower back. It’s so bad that if you trace the stretch
marks with blank ink and look at it from afar, you’d think that you’re
looking at a definitive road map of Metro Manila.

Anyways, I
went to Puerto Gallera with some of my High School friends. I consider
Puerto Gallera as Boracay’s bastard cousin. It is a truly fascinating
place–as long as you agree that ‘fascinating’ means “A place lined
with seedy lodges, ridiculously overpriced bars, obnoxious Korean
tourists, and a place where transvestites of all shapes and sizes
traipse merrily up and down the beach where colorful bunnies follow
them around and a trail of flowers grow on the sand they tread on.”

As much as I hate the beach though, there are some things on
the beach that I’d take an innocent life for. These things, I realized
recently, are the sole purpose of my existence; the reason why my heart
beats and my loins throb with a fiery gusto: THE FUCKING CHICKS.