First of all, I hate you for making me fall so deeply inlove with you again during your sojourn here in Manila. You've given me a far better time than what I originally expected. Really, all I was hoping for was for us to go out, argue over dinner, argue more inside my car until I realize my laptop is missing–at which point I will invariably cry or suffer a mild stroke; You'd then, in an ardently sensual manner, proceed to give me a comforting hug and I, in a manner that is not ardently sensual at all, will fondle your breasts. At that point I expect us to throw caution to the wind, have a wild make-out session and end up spending the night together in a hotel room. Or you spending the night in a hotel and me spending the night at the city jail, happily eating gruel with a bunch of convicted rapists, depending on how you'd react.
Well we did end up in a hotel room and no thanks to an assload of alcohol, it was a night filled with "technical difficulties" on my part, a lot of sweating, a lot of aplogies, and a lot of questions to the effect of "which went in which hole" but I will go ahead and say that that night, you've given me the single, most mind-blowing fuck I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
What's more amazing is we did the exact same thing roughly fifty times during your stay here and never did I, or ever will, get tired of it.
I hate you for looking nothing short of divine whenever we go out. Whether you're wearing those sassy stilettos with that overpriced Mango dress of yours which I love so much, or making heads turn (and quite possibly, dicks hard) with the way you fill a bikini at the beach, you never fail to do a number on my already critical-level self esteem and make me feel like trash. What with all my ratty Chucks and "vintage pieces" which, in reality, are nothing but shirts I bought from the Surplus Shop four years, a couple of laundry accidents involving bleach, and countless instances when I wiped semen off my tummy with them after I masturbate ago.
I hate you for showering me with truckloads of expensive gifts and still being able to love someone like me whose idea of a romantic dinner is getting you 500 pesos worth of mums and old roses, taking you to a cheap restaurant in Ortigas where the entrées cost a pathetic 150 pesos on average, THEN asking you to split the tab with me. And yes you can call me Douchebag Smith from now on.
I hate you for being able to love someone like me who wakes up beside you in the morning, hungover like a bitch, with pieces of barbecue and sand (don't ask) stuck between my teeth, my breath stinking like a Dencio's restroom after 12mn, and with luncheon meat from the night before crushed between my back and the matress; asking you questions like "Baby, did we have sex last night?" and getting answers like "Well we tried to have sex. But that last slammer fucked you up real bad. Don't you remember? after you went flaccid, you gave me this really long diatribe about how you think the government should summarily execute homeless people and about how badly you want to run a prostitution ring? Also, I think I heard you crying in the shower."
You see I hate you so much that I have no choice but to wait for you for two years and give you hell by marrying you.
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
