Unlike most people, I easily consider Saturday as the worst day of the week. Allow me to explain. Due to the nature of my job, I have to hack through a work week that begins on a Tuesday and ends on Saturday. Now this would've been fine except for the fact that NOT drinking on a Friday night(A work night for me), much like NOT calling a sexual partner derogatory names or screaming profanities at her, just doesn't feel right.
My Psychiatrist's orders notwithstanding, I've discontinued taking Rivotril (a benzodiazepine , prescribed to me to keep my anxiety in check) because I decided that throwing back two bottles of strong beer before I sleep is about 10,000 shades more fun that popping a little pill that severely messes up your emotions before actually sending you to a troublesome and intermittent sleep.
Also, all of my friends booze up on Fridays and, for me, that only means one thing: Alcohol/Recreational drug-induced Coma. So usually, my Saturdays consist of oafishly trying to get ready for work as I ungracefully move from bed to shower, back to bed, and to the couch to sneak in a couple of more minutes of sleep; my body being sluggish in every sense of the word in protest of the eight liters of alcohol still coursing through my bloodstream.
What's worse than the physical backlash of my inordinate drinking are the mental ones. As you all know, I am suffering from a weird-ass form of anxiety disorder and I am taking SSRI's/Anti-depressants to cope with it. Now when you have SSRI's trying to maintain dopamine and serotonin levels in your brain and you throw in gratuitous and overweening amounts of alcohol into the fray, the result is that–well let's just say you become really fucked up.
So besides being hungover like a bitch, I also have a ragbag of rotten emotions which makes the comedown REALLY difficult to deal with. This morning, while my body desperately tried to purge itself from all the alcohol I consumed last night, my extreme mood swings caused me to cry when I saw a TV ad about coffee and caused me to feel bloodlust and made me chase the paper boy down the street and stab him in the neck because the little Visayan fucker shortchanged me by four pesos. Fucking asshole I swear to god.
Also, I need your opinion on this. We've already established that I was feeling really shitty this morning and no matter what I do, I couldn't bring myself to get to work. Now what I did was pop another bottle of Red Horse open and masturbated while listening to John Legend's - Save Room on my iPod (My new masturbation song. A song that bumped off Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis' Cruisin, my old masturbation song) and that sort of did the trick. Is this bad? Is there anything wrong with that? Is there a stronger word for "Drunkard?"
Fuck, I honestly think I'm losing it. So I strongly advise you not to be anywhere near Shaw boulevard today–unless of course you want a bullet in the leg because seriously, I feel like picking off people with a rifle from our building's rooftop.
Oh and have a great weekend!
For those of you who care to know, I turned 25 last Sunday. Twentyfuckingfive. When I was a kid of around 12, I've always thought that I'll have things going for me when I turn 25. I mean my Dad married my mom when they were 28 and 27 respectively so it's natural for me to assume that when I hit 25, I would be prepared and well on my way to a married life where I have a cover girl trophy wife who gives wicked beejers and cooks the best Kare Kare in town, two kids who aren't seriously retarded and do not have a predilection for burning up churches. I'd live in a suburban house with a ginormous lawn where I would have a gazebo which I would be power washing every weekend while my Saint Bernard named "Sneakers" plays catch with my kids. Every month, me and my family will go to exotic island vacations and me and my wife will, every once in a while, go on medical missions to help thirsty orphans in Africa. Yes, life will be peachy when I hit 25.
But instead, here I am, 25 -years-old, still living with my parents, spending 80% of my meager income on alcohol and illegal drugs, my head a stew of all sorts of mental disorders ranging from mild clinical depression to full blown panic attacks, engaged to a wonderful girl but only have less than 30,000 pesos in my savings, and practically have NOTHING to show for my 25-year existence but a blog teeming with racist/dick jokes(which gets over 4,000 page views a day but that's besides the point. Asshole).
To celebrate this tragedy called the quarter life (though I still don't understand why people refer to being 25 as 'the quarter life.' I mean, are you guys seriously aiming for 100? Because at the rate I'm going I expect to be bedridden by the time I'm 30. Yes I have 5 good years left. Birthday sex anyone?), I planned a three day all-out drinking bonanza with three different groups of people–My friends from the office, my friends from the internet, and my broke-ass hobo friends from the neighborhood.
Both the drinking bonanzas with my friends from the office and my broke-ass hobo friends from the neighborhood were quite uneventful. No wait, actually as a consequence of me speed drinking around eight bottles of Red Horse in under 3 hours (We started drinking around 7 and I had to leave around 10 since my brother was picking me up), I got way too drunk for my own good and much to the chagrin of my mother who found me sleeping butt naked on the living room floor the morning after, had this conversation with the mummers:
Mom: Oh my God, Michael! What are you doing there?! [looking away]
Me: [waking up, still drunk] What? [scratching scrotum]
Mom: Oh my God! Get dressed! Somebody might walk in and see you–exposed!
Me: Yeah, big deal. Mom can you get me a blanket? [falling back asleep]
Mom: Oh my God! What happened to you?! What did you turn into?! Oh my God!
Not my finest I know. And I apologize to Marc, Riz, Sharm, and a bunch of other people if I acted like a total dunce in front of you guys that night. Please understand that I was very tipsy that night and I couldn't really be held accountable for the things I did. Also by 'very tipsy' I meant, 'brain dead drunk and I was really planning to freeze my scrotum off by sleeping naked on the cold marble tiles of our living room'.
The drinking bonanza I had with my broke-ass hobo friends/band mates was pretty much the same story only with a different ending–an ending which involves 2 Barangay Tanods breaking up the shindig after me and my equally inebriated band mates decided that turning up the guitar amplifiers all the way up and singing a drunken version of Bohemian Rhapsody at 2 o'clock in the morning was a good idea. Also minor fisticuffs ensued after somebody accused somebody of stealing his cellphone. Such wonderful friends I have.
And The Man Blog Alcohol Celebraganza?–waittaminute! I am honestly at loss for words to describe what happened that night. It's really to soon for me to talk about it because I'm still at awe from all shades of awesomeness that happened that night. I mean there were girls kissing each other for crying out loud! Girls! Kissing! Each other! And people asking for my autograph! Good times baby, good times.
So yeah, I guess it was fun. I was kind of hurting inside though that my fiancee wasn't here to celebrate my birthday with me but it was okay. Also, I think that there's an 85% chance of my Fiancee backing out of our wedding after she reads this post. I mean I have received a lot of comments from people saying that I am someone who "Knows how to have fun". Although I think my mother and my fiancee would agree with me that the best word to describe me should be "Drunkard."
Fuck, I hate all of you right now all of a sudden.
If you don't already know, besides being a Rising Internet Star, yours truly is also a quasi-boobtologist(which, for the benefit of my non-intellectual readers, means that I am REALLY into women's boobs). I couldn't explain why I am unreasonably fond of boobs but really, I'm the type of guy who'd hang out in food courts, checking out women's breasts, often doing double takes–something which, more often than not ends up with me being put in a very precarious situation.
(Like this one time a bunch of high school kids ganged up on me and took turns kicking me around while I, lay down and doubled up in a fetal position in self defense. But really, in my defense, the tits on one of the kids' girlfriend I fondled while she wasn't looking looked really nice and I didn't really intend to run; much less, get caught)
I guess my fascination with boobs is rooted from the fact that my fiancee arguably has the best pair of mammaries in the world: fairly large, not too bouncy and I don't know if you'll believe me, but nectar oozes from it when I suck on it–which leads me to believe that her wonderful body has been developing her boobular region when I was still in grade school eating erasers and being bullied for my lunch money. (Or am I just justifying my addiction to boobies by making it look like it's a manifestation of my immortally chaste love for my fiancee by comparing every pair of tits out there to hers? I don't know. What the fuck are you? A fucking narc?)
I guess what I'm saying is that I was (past tense, more on this later) very much into tits. It was so bad that it has gotten to a point where I automatically disqualify females from being my friend based on the size of her tits. This boobie addiction was especially heightened whenever summer rolls in–the season where tight tank tops and tubes make their glorious return. During this time of year, I usually become more aggressive in terms of checking out women's breasts. In fact, there were numerous instances when a woman in the MRT would, disgustedly, move to the back end of the car because I was staring down her chest area for a solid 15 minutes without blinking.
But ever since I accepted gigs from FHM, I felt like my interest in boobs–and women in general–have waned immensely. And really, you can't blame me. I mean I've done a total of three interviews for FHM–interviews which involve me being exposed to hot women in various stages of undress and their titties in different angles and under different lighting conditions for extended periods of time.
At first I thought I hit the jackpot, getting to interview hot chicks, getting to ogle at boobies with a feigned expression appropriate for someone appreciating a Van Gogh. But really, it gets old quite fast. So now, instead of seeing breasts as sweet, wonderful, huge orbs of joy, I now see breasts as nothing more than adipose tissue that will eventually sag down to a woman's hips and be the cause of her husband's leaving her for a young, nubile stripper who'd do anything for a green card.
Most of you will read this post, judge me and ask "How can anyone possibly get tired of titties?" And to you I will say "You're just showing me how unfamous you are. Fistfight?"
But seriously, I need to kindle anew my passion for wonderful tits and I heard that this can be done by asking another man to put his penis in my mouth and unlo–No, wait.
Anyway, here's the latest interview I did for FHM.
Oh, and by the way:
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
