I consider my going to therapy for my panic disorder to be a very tender topic. But since I am the guy who's perpetually low on material and the guy who'll post anything on the internet regardless of morality or legality, the sensitivity of the topic is not going to stop me from writing about the details of my therapy sessions on the internet for all my future employers, family, friends and potenial casual sex partners/admirers to discover.
So I went to my first therapy session for this year and as I was sitting in the waiting room waiting for my name to be called by the secretary, I remembered why I wasn't too crazy about going to therapy in the first place: The severity of my mental disorder is nothing compared to those of other people waiting to get a psychiatric consultation. I cannot find the words to describe how uncomfortable it is to wait in a waiting room with people who talk to themselves while they drool or people who talk about how they saw a yellow leprechaun beat up a proboscis monkey the night before when my only dysfunction, if you can even call it that, is that I suffer from a very common disorder that 3% of the world's population suffer from at some point in their lives and the fact that I obsessively masturbate to Kim Chiu's Whisper commercial to the point where I flog my penis for more than 10 minutes waiting for Sana Maulit Muli to return from the commercial break because I found out that I can blow my load over my head and into my hair whenever I see Gerald Anderson and Kim Chiu on TV together.
(I just reread that last sentence and I realized that I might be crazier than I thought. Also, if Kim's or Gerald's lawyers are reading this, you might want to take a screenshot of this blog post right now, print it out and mark it as "Prosecution Exhibit A" for when you press charges against me in the future. Thanks)
Waiting in a psychiatrist's waiting room is also overwhelmingly awkward so really, while all the lunatics in the room were talking to their imaginary friends or drooling the fuck all over the place, I was slumped over in my chair, sweating anxious sweat with my face sunk in my hands waiting for the secretary to tell me that the doctor's ready for me.
The fact that there are attractive normal people (I use the term "normal people" here in relation to the lunatics in the waiting room. I'm not crazy. Really.) who walk in once in a while serves only to further exacerbate my anxiety. The feeling is quite simlar to the feeling I get after visiting a massage parlor/prostitution den/chlamydia hive. You know how it goes– You just paid some weird, young southern girl who fronts as a masseuse to have sex with you only to end up passing out and peeing yourself in the shower because you were drunk as fuck; So you ask for a handjob instead. You slip into your clothes after experiencing what is quite possibly the worst orgasm you've ever had and casually walk out of the massage parlor only to run into an ex girlfriend who is way hotter than she is when you broke up with her.
Ex Girlfriend: Mike! What are you doing [glances up at the sign over the massage parlor which reads "Majestic Gentleman's Club"]…here?
Me: Um [lips shaking], I'm writing a piece for [insert prominent newspaper here] about prostitution. I just went inside to interview some girls who have been victimized by white slavery at such a tender age.
Ex: [unconvinced] So you write for [prominent newspaper]? You know, [Some bigtime editor] is a very good friend of mine, I should ask her about you.
Me: [nervous as fuck] well I guess you could but she probably doesn't know me being that I'm new and all.
Ex: [Shrugs] Right. Oh by the way this is my new boyfriend Diether Ocampo.
Diether: Musta pharree dude?
Me: Hello.
Ex: Listen, we have to go, we're going over to his place where I'm going to let him stick his penis in my anus and let him fondle my breasts to his heart's content. For free.
Me: Okay bye. [fighting tears]
Because the Philippines is a backwards-ass country and people here live in straw huts and do nothing all day but play with their mustaches and worship stone gods, the stigma associated with seeing a psychiatrist is as strong as it was back in the 1800's. To most people here, when somebody is seeing a psychiatrist, it automatically makes him crazy and thus should be avoided at all costs because there is a great chance that he'll murder your entire family and rape your dog if you provoke him enough.
For this reason, I am afraid that somebody I know might see me in the waiting room and automatically label me a looney without even Googling my name and finding out that I am quite popular on the internet and women literally throw themselves at me because they find my immaculate grammar sexy. (As always, just play along)
And ladies and gentlemen, you know what they say: "What you fear is what you find" (I don't know exactly who said this but I'm guessing it's from a Metallica song or something) and true enough, a girl I went to gradeschool with came in after I've been waiting in the room for about 15 minutes and sat right across me. Now, this girl is not particularly attractive but seeing that she's only there because her mom asked her to pick up anti-depressants for her and that she's the only real semblance of sanity in that shithole, I proceeded to strike up a conversation with her.
We got to talking a little about our personal lives. It turns out that she's married and has a baby and she's doing marketing for an FM radio station; I, on the other hand, told her that I do marketing for an internet company and I have a famous blog which is quite a big deal on the internet. I also, subtly, hinted that there is an internet cafe downstairs and we could maybe go down and read my site to pass time while we wait for the doctor then she, not so subtly at all, hinted that if I don't stop insisting to her that she should read the blog, she will call security as she is now seriously creeped out.
Stigma. Proof. All in one paragraph.
God, I hate therapy.
The fact that I have been suffering from severe bouts of panic and anxiety attacks is well documented in the annals of this blog. A corollary of the aforementioned mental disorders is me having to struggle with mild clinical depression and an anticipatory fear of being humiliated in public if another panic episode strikes (There's really no way of telling when or where my panic attacks would strike. As a matter of fact, this morning, while I was masturbating after taking a poop, my heart started pounding, I began sweating profusely and flipped the fuck out with fear. So I ran out of the bathroom, slipped into my clothes and left for work. So yeah, I apologize to my officemates if I stink worse today than usual. I forgot to wash after taking a poop, stop being such a squeamish vagina already, Geezus.)
Anyway, I could go into a long, emotional tirade about how having these mental disorders is debilitating and how it seriously impedes how I function daily but seeing that I can only dream to have the eloquence my fellow nutcases over at the Anxiety Disorders Association of America possess, I'll let them do the talking:
I've pretty much kept my anxiety at bay with short therapy sessions, prescription drugs such as benzodiazepines, anxiolytics and anti-depressants as well as not-so-prescription substances such as valium, methamphetamines, turpentine, and cocaine. But let's not talk about that. (Or let's forget I said that entirely because really, I'm seriously suspecting that my bosses read this blog and it's not like you guys are going to support nor comfort me when I start sucking dicks inside dark movie houses in exchange for coins)
Also, I've eschewed a full therapy program and settled for short consultations with a psychiartist mainly because the 9 month therapy program is an utter waste of time and money. Imagine:
Session 1:
Shrink (Who's incredibly HOT, but that's for an entirely new post): Hi, how can I help you?
Me: I think im suffering from panic attacks.
Shrink: hmmm. Do you have any vices? Do you drink? Do you smoke?
Me: I smoke and I also–
Shrink: There's your problem. Quit smoking. [writing prescription] and take two of these ridiculously over-priced pills everyday.
Session 2:
Shrink: How have you been?
Me: Doc, I don't think the pills are working, and I think I've gotten worse. This morning, I tried to rip off my left arm and wanted to smash my car's windshield with it.
Shrink: That's because you can't quit smoking. [writes prescription] Continue taking these ridiculously expensive drugs, and because I don't like you, take three of them everyday.
Session 3:
Shrink: How have you been?
Me: Whenever I watch TV and see people kissing or hugging, I feel the urge to cry. Is this normal?
Shrink: That's because you can't quit smoking. [writes prescription] Continue taking these ridiculously expensive drugs. Oh and get an even more expensive thyroid scan. Bye, see you next week.
Session 4:
Shrink: How have you been?
Me: I tried to kill myself by popping 20 of the pills you prescribed. Didn't work, I just fell asleep. When I woke up, I punched my mother in the face for no reason. She cried. What now?
Shrink: That's because you can't quit smoking. [writes prescription] Try this extended release anti-depressant. I heard it works better. I also heard it's more expensive.
Session 5:
Shrink: How have you been?
Me: I just lost 20 thousand pesos in a card game. I got really pissed so I burned our kitchen down and drove my car off a bridge. Also, you're the worst shrink ever and If you weren't so hot and if I didn't have fantasies involving me fingerblasting the fuck out of you and doing you from behind, I would stop seeing you.
Shrink: That's because you can't quit smoking. Oh and please don't stop seeing me, I'm making a fortune out of you.
What a fucking waste of time. However, I intend to see my regular shrink again because recently, I've added a new animal in my menagerie of wonderful mental disorders. Ladies and gentlemen, Mike Villar is now also an agoraphobic. Now, don't expect me to explain to you what agoraphobia is because first, I'm not a doctor and second, you're not paying me to do this shit.
Anyway:
Agoraphobia is an anxiety disorder which primarily consists of the fear of experiencing a difficult or embarrassing situation from which the sufferer cannot escape.
Agoraphobics may experience severe panic attacks in situations where they feel trapped, insecure, out of control, or too far from their personal comfort zone. In severe cases, an agoraphobic may be confined not only to their home, but to one or two rooms, and they may even become bed-bound, or a recluse.
Agoraphobics are often extremely sensitized to their own bodily sensations, subconsciously over-reacting to perfectly normal events. For example, the exertion involved in climbing a flight of stairs may trigger a full-blown panic attack, because it increases the heartbeat and breathing rate, which the agoraphobic interprets as the start of a panic attack instead of a normal fluctuation.
Basically, I'm afraid to step out of my comfort zones too long. My comfort zones being home and the office I work at (Thank god my anxiety disorder is okay with the office. Otherwise, I'd be fired and how am I going to sustain all my expensive addictions then if ever?). I really have no problems when I'm at home nor do I have problems when I'm at work. Actually, I think this makes me more focused on my job to the point that I'm obsessive-compulsive and totally anal with the quality of my work output.
I cannot, however, drive (I'm scared for some reason) and I have to have somebody drive me to and from work. I also can't go to crowded places because I fear that I might suffer another panic episode, flip the fuck out and do something that I will end up in jail for.
I can only see two reasons why all of this is happening to me. The first being that I haven't been touched (unless it's accidental) by a female ever since my fiancee left the country over a month ago, and masturbation can only get me so far really. The second I think is because I'm an artist(Please, just play along, I'm sick), and all great minds go through this shit at least once in their lives. Think Jeff Buckley. Think Nick Drake. Think Daniel Johns.
So, it's back to full therapy for me people. But for the meantime, I would appreciate any good vibes you can send my way. (And by good vibes I mean contact numbers of drug pushers who sell cheap anti-depressants or illegal drugs from the trunk of their cars.)
That is all. Thanks.
When I first started blogging a year and half ago, I basically just wanted a place where I could dick around, express my deep-seated ill-will and general hatred towards my ex girlfriends, and a place where I could whine about how big a douche my boss at work is without the risk of getting fired. For these reasons, I never bothered plastering my site with photos of myself. I mean for one, I have very low self-esteem and I don't think posting a picture of myself on my site for thousands of people to see and email me shit like "Dude, where's your neck?" or "Please stay away from my kids" would do any good to it.
Also, I do not have even an iota of respect for people who try to gain popularity on the internet via their pretty pics; fuck, now that I think of it, I have zero respect for ANYONE who fame-grubs on the internet. (Please, let's all forget that I started calling myself "Rising Internet Star" after I got my first few mainstream media mentions. Fuck you.)
In the incipient stages of my multi-million Peso media empire (I'm lying here, just play along), before I could afford myself all the exotic women and the wonderful drugs I am addicted to (still lying; if my bosses are reading this. Especially about the drugs), and before tens and thousands of people discovered and read the numerous blog pieces that propelled me to superstardom (biggest lie of all, sadly), I tried to experiment a little and tried putting pictures of myself along with some of my entries. I thought "Hey it couldn't be THAT bad. Afterall, I've lost a lot of weight and the estrogen pills I'm taking really improved how my skin looks. I mean they also significantly increased the size of my man boobs but hey whatever."
Things went smoothly at first; my fame grew exponentially over a period of two months so did the number of people offering me their hand in marriage and the emails from girls warning me that if they ever catch me following them again on Taft Avenue or if they ever catch me sitting outside their window at night eating a bag of potato chips while rubbing my bird, they will call the Police.
I, however, decided to take down all the pictures I had on the net after some guy decided to put up a now infamous hate site for yours truly and chose nothing but the most unflattering pics of me he can find.
After the brouhaha died down, and after I grew more confident with my sexuality, I decided to put up pictures of myself in the site again. Not only that, but I've also decided to create a Friendster profile so complete strangers can ogle at my pics and leave me sexually suggestive messages and testimonials.
I'm kind of glad I did too because recently, I've been getting recognized and approached by people who read my site. I know for a fact that the people who did approach me will hate me and never read my site again for even mentioning this and I also know that it's more proper for an Internet semi-famous person such as myself to just play it cool and not act as if it's a big deal. But it is. Have you ever been approached by somebody who recognizes you for your art (again, just play along)? I didn't think so. Asshole.
Anyway, I think I should get used to this and just learn to act within decorum because seriously, I'm not good at handling this shit. Like yesterday when I was at the Gym's sports lounge, abusing their free WiFi, having a beer and pretending to talk on my cellphone to a business associate abroad, two girls recognized me.
How? Well one thing you have to know about me is that when I talk on the phone and introduce myself to the party I'm talking to, I use my first and last name:
Me: Hello, I need to speak with [name]
Other party: Speaking. Who's this?
Me: It's Mike Villar.
or
Me: I don't fucking care if he's meeting with the Pope, just get him on the phone! Tell him it's Mike Villar!
Other party: You do not have enough credits to make this call please reload your prepaid account—
Me: FUCK YOU!
It's not that I'm proud of my last name too, I mean if anything, my last name sounds like it belongs to a Puerto Rican who earns $2 an hour cleaning swimming pools. So yeah, apparently the two girls overheard me on the phone and realized that I am Mike Villar: Rising Internet Star. The younger of the two girls approached me on my table:
Girl: [wearing a sweaty tennis outfit] Hi are you Mike Villar? The blogger?
Me: [putting my phone down, pretending not to hear her and subtly typing my blog's URL on my laptop's browser] Oh sorry, were you talking to me?
Girl: Yes, I just wanted to ask if you're Mike Villar the blogger
Me: Um, yes that's me [sliding over my laptop to her, showing her my site] I'm actually writing an entry now.
Girl: Cool! I just want to say that I love reading your work and you're so oddly funny!
Me: [acting all bashful and shit] Really? Thanks! So how old are you?
Girl: I'm 17
Me: [disappointed at the fact that she's not of legal age] Oh how about her? [pointing to the other girl who looks older]
Girl: She's my ate, she's 19
Me: Doesn't she want to talk to me?
Girl: No. She hates your site and she thinks your mean and totally unfunny.
Me: [depressed all of a sudden, drinking an entire bottle of San Mig Light in one go]
Girl: So how long have you been–
Me: Not now. [fighting tears]
So that didn't work out the way I wanted it to. And what sucks is that after the two girls left I tried to milk the situation further by trying to hit on the moderately attractive waitress who serves drinks in the lounge:
Me: Fans. They amuse me sometimes. [smiling at the waitress]
Waitress: Yeah. [Totally uninterested] Which basketball team are you on?
Me: [a little pissed] basketball? no! I have a blog and it's kind of a big deal on the internet.
Waitress: What's a blog?
Me: Well it's basically a website about me.
Waitress Oh I see [unimpressed]. And sorry, You're too short to be a basketball player.
Me: Well you know what they say, "It's not the size of the boat, it's the motion of the ocean"
Waitress: That didn't really make any sense.
Me: I Know. [5 seconds of awkward silence] What time do you get off? You wanna drink with me?
Waitress: I don't think that's a good idea–
Me: Blow Job?
Waitress: [leaving]
Me: Hey wait! I just want to talk! come back! please?
Ah, good times.
On my way home yesterday, a gay Balut vendor and I had the following exchange:
Me: Excuse me, pagbilan ng dalawang Marlboro.
Gay Balut Vendor: Ay wala po!
Me: Sige, Winston nalang.
GBV: Wala rin po!
Me: Kahit anong sigarilyo nalang dyan.
GBV: Wala po akong sigarilyo eh, gusto mo ikaw nalang sigarilyohin ko.
I will leave the rest of what happened for your imagination to manipulate and morally debase. I know many of you will read this entry and judge me but in my defense, I think I reacted with utmost grace and sound judgment that is expected of an Internet semi-famous person such as myself.
I mean sure, maybe 500 bucks is too big a price to pay for a motel room I didn't even use for more than two hours and yeah sure, maybe I should've at least taken a shower and washed my genitalia out of courtesy but trust me on this: When you're being sexually harassed by a gay guy who sells weird eggs in a dark alley, you just don't have time to think about things(let alone, STD's). You just don't.
Fuck you.
The Man Blog's posts are sarcastic and littered with foul language. Deliberately politically incorrect and brimming with sexual innuendo, The Man Blog's fodder for hate mail, but for the rest, an addictive blog to read during office hours. The wacky photos strewn all over it are enough entertainment as it is, but the editors and contributors take it a step further by actually writing hilarious stories and musings–make believe or otherwise–on just about anything under the sun to go with them.
As if the slap-your-knee photos and posts aren't enough, even the comments section is amusing with the exchange of wisecracks among the editors, visitors, and even haters of the site. Reading it feels like going through a meaner version of FHM in the restroom. A blog definitely not recommended for the killjoy, but moreover, not for the weak of heart.
Okay, here's what I want you to do: Stop sucking cock for one minute and head over to your nearest convenience store and pick up the January-February issue of T3 Magazine. If you're anything like me, you'll probably leaf through a couple of pages and masturbate to new gadgets that represent 5% of the total cost of your parents' first house and gadgets you probably can't afford. Once you get that out of the way, turn to page 91 and read the shit written under the blogs section.
Let it sink in for a few minutes. Done? Now say it with me:
HOLY FUCKING CUNT PUSSY MOUTH BURGER EXTREME!
Okay people, the important thing here is that nobody panics. If you panic, we panic. And if we panic nobody wins. I understand that this is a chaotic time for all of us but let's all calm down here and attempt to make light out of this entire thing. Now, I think it behooves everybody for me to open the floor to a short Q&A.
Q: But why? You guys suck!
A: We really have no idea. At this point, the best we can do is formulate conclusions based on incomplete and inconclusive information. We are guessing that:
Q: The last one didn't really make sense–
A: Yeah, well fuck you.
Q: Um, what now?
A: Well, unlike our Interview with The Manila Bulletin(which had Pau's, Adam's, Kinkylube's Emer's, and my name plastered all over it; and which got me laid quite a few times), we can't really keep a copy of the magazine's page in our wallets all the time so we can whip it out when we're in bars trying to solicit sex from 16 year-old girls. That just doesn't work, trust me on this.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're not really famous outside the internet so we're going to solicit sex from you. So you know, if you're a girl, remotely hot and you're open to the idea of showing us how well-groomed your pubic region is in exchange for a warm place to sleep in and a little money, do drop us a line.
Nah seriously, I'd like to thank the people behind T3 especially the beautiful(?) Chrissy Icamina for this mention/ego masturbation. We'll make sure you receive some man-lovin' this Christmas.
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
