I’m dying. No, seriously. I am.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Now this fucking sucks. I think I'm coming down with a flu and it feels like somebody's playing a game of intense table tennis inside my head and every volley is making my head throb like mad. I can manage to stand up for less than a few minutes before my knees get all wobbly and I need to support myself by leaning against a wall and slowly sliding down groaning before finally ending up on the floor in a fetal position.

Now everybody knows how much of a hypochondriac I can be and how much of a pussy I am when it comes to coping up with illness so right now, I am pretty sure I have a weird tropical sleeping disorder which is going to kill me any minute now. I actually spent the most of my day calling everybody I know (At least the ones who're not mad at me. My best friend is actually pretty pissed at me right now) asking them to devote a few minutes of their time to go over a list of my final wishes before I kick the bucket. But for some reason, either all of them are really out or they are hiding from me because I never got to talk to any of them and none of them returned my call.

Now I feel so fucking alone that I am actually thinking of picking out random female names in my phone book, calling them and begging them to come over to nurse me back to health and endure hours of sexual come-ons or at least have phone sex with me. (This might sound pathetic but you know what they say: "Beggars can't be choosers.")

However, on account of my numerous absences from work, I do not intend to miss work tomorrow so I am doing everything I can to alleviate all my symptoms the best way I know: to pop an aspirin, drink four bottles of beer, hit up some heroin and cry profusely while watching Heroes episodes.

So since none of my friends are stepping up in a time when my life is in dark, vacuous shambles; I am going to spend the remainder of this post saying goodbye and apologizing to the people I love for the horrible ways I've touched their lives.

To my girlfriend. I love nothing else in this sick, sad little world more than I love you. I would also like to take this opportunity to say that no matter what everyone else thinks, I assure you that I am (mostly) straight. That incident in Bulacan where you saw me kissing my friend Matthew on the mouth wasn't what you thought it was. It's just that we both got pretty hammered and next thing we knew, he was touching my man boob and calling me Jennifer and I was pulling his hair and was referring to him as "El Conquistador Montague." Again, for the same reason that the incident when I wasn't able to sustain an erection when my mom secretly took me to a strip bar on my 17th birthday and asked a dancer to give me a blow job doesn't make me gay, getting erotic with a (hot) male friend IF you're drunk doesn't make one gay either. God, I love you for being so understanding.

To my family. No, wait. I don't love them.

To the people who read this blog. I don't know why the hell you still come back to read this blog. I've been writing this shit for almost two years now with very little material to work with. Honestly who would've thought that we'd make it through more than three months with nothing but jokes about masturbation, copious drinking and failure with women? Well we did, and because of that I love you. From afar. Behind a computer. A mug of beer in my left hand and (somebody else's) penis in my right.

And with that said, I bid all of thee farewell.  We had a good run didn't we? Please?