Let me make a confession here: Ever since I lied to my psychiatrist about the state of my anxiety disorder and overall mental health, and successfully convinced her to take me off anti-depressants (Yet retain my prescription of Xanax and other benzodiazepines I could get high on. Yes. I'm very good at lying apparently), I've been drinking A LOT.
I know this is not really news since everybody knows how much more I love alcohol than everybody else I've loved in my life but seriously, it has gotten much worse and, for the first time, I am acknowledging that THIS HAS GOT TO STOP.
The reason primarily being that my alcoholism is taking a serious toll on my life, particularly my work since I have this predilection for drinking on work nights. My hangovers have been nothing short of savage these past few days and I end up losing my focus at work because, more often than not, I am hungover like a bitch (Also sweaty and dirty. This morning I could literally smell my undercarriage through my jeans and for some reason my bird smells like a wet dog. But let's not talk about that)
I've been drinking so much that I noticed that I drank every single night this week and although I exaggerated a lot before, this is the worst it has gotten. Before, I really didn't drink on week days. At most, I drank about thrice a week but now I'm easily doing over like 20 liters of alcoholic beverages a week. I don't know how that translates to my daily average and frankly, I don't want to find out being that it might depress the shit out of me.
But guess what, I'm Mike "Fucking" Villar. And Mike "Fucking" Villar does not succumb to ANYTHING. Not even alchol. As I write this, I have a battle plan laid out and I am willing to subject myself to rigid discipline to curb my worsening alcoholism.
Here's what I've noticed: I've been drinking at least three Red Horses a night this past week–the problem presents itself of course after you throw back your third bottle: It's fucking hard not to have ANOTHER.
I also noticed that I can pretty much stop drinking after my third bottle and be content, but if I have a fourth bottle, there's a GREAT chance that I'd go for another bottle. If I go for a fifth bottle, the chances are I am going to go for a sixth and when I go for a sixth bottle of red horse, nobody wins. When I throw back 6 bottles of Red Horse beer, it almost ends up with somebody getting arrested, and somebody's life and genitals being destroyed.
So the solution, I think, is to set three bottles as my absolute limit as far as daily drinking would go. I know this doesn't sound like much effort, but the important thing here, you assholes, is that I am doing SOMETHING about my alcoholism. Baby steps people. I'll get there.
P.S. I just realized that breaking up with my girlfriend pretty much destroyed whatever little chance I had left of getting laid this year. And because I'm in the middle of a maddening dry spell, I'm considering going to jail in exchange for getting to rape some random 17 year old (gender doesn't matter anymore). I mean it's not so bad, think about it:
1.) I will have masturbatory fodder for the rest of my life (I got to have sex with a minor AND got to have buttsecks with my Visayan cell mate EVERY NIGHT while I serve my 30-year sentence)
and
2.) I get to skip work. Because fuck it, work is so stressful nowadays.
(I just reread this entire post and oh my God, what am I saying? Seriously people, I'm still sane. Still.)
P.P.S.
I have a new phone number guys! TXT ME AT +639174382372 NO GAYS PLZ!
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!
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.
It’s been a while since I posted personal shit in this blog. The reason for me putting blogging here in abeyance is that most of the little time I have left from working more than 9 hours for my company is spent compensating for the utter laziness the other editors over at the Man Blog are exhibiting.
Don’t get me wrong, I think that The Man Blog is the single greatest blog in town and I totafuckingly love everybody who contributes to it (in a purely heterosexual way of course) but guys: Do you think we can fucking write more? An article a week like we all agreed on when we first started the site? I mean, I don’t have a problem covering for your asses once in a while but guys, you have to understand that I am just a man! I am not the literary dynamo you think I am. I run out of things to write about too you know! And when that happens, I plagiarize stuff from Something Awful and it’s only a matter of time before I get called on it.
Also, like I said earlier, I have a job to which I devote more than 9 hours of work a day. I love my job, I love the people I work with and the fact that I keep seeing that really hot curly guy who hosts TEXTTUBE at the office next door. With that said, I’d like to say for the record that I will never, I say again, NEVER, even think of misallocating company time by posting to my, nay, ANY blog during work hours.
(HR people, if you’re reading this, I’d like to remind you that my contract expires on the 1st of August and I was wondering if I could renew it for another year. I kind of need the money. Also, ever since I became a celebrity the 16 grand a month you give me cannot cope up with my lavish lifestyle anymore. So you know, it would be awesome if you could throw in a raise in there too. That is all. )
Anyway, what is up with Mike “Fucking” Villar? Well let’s start off with the non-computer related stuff I’m engaged in. Remember when I told you that I joined a totafuckingly rocking band and we met this big time record producer in a bar then he offered us a record contract and like free sex with his underage… Wait, that didn’t happen! Man, I’ve been writing so much lies in this blog that sometimes I couldn’t even remember what lie I told before; you know, to at least have continuity in my stories. What? And you’re perfect? Fuck you.
So yeah, although at first I had qualms with regards to singing for a thrash metal band, I’m proud to announce that things are starting to tighten up. I realized that my voice sounds pretty good singing trash shit as long as I scream my fucking head off and I have maximum echo coming out of the amp my microphone’s connected to.
As of the moment, we covered the shit out of Metallica’s three best albums (Ride the lightning, Kill ‘em all, and Master of puppets thank you very much) as well as a couple of Sabbath and Pantera songs. I don’t want to get stuck with covers though and I’m planning to write way softer compositions for us to play.
The problem with this is that except for myself, my band has zero musical IQ. The songwriting process revolves entirely around me and although I’m an okay songwriter (moment of humility, please don’t spoil), I need feedback from everybody especially in terms of what guitar riff would go best with what mood the song I write is trying to evoke.
This is a major problem considering the different musical influences each of us have. JL, my best friend and our bassist, is into rap metal and post-grunge shit; Leslie and James, our guitarist and drummer respectively are both into trash and stoner rock; and I am into the mellower stuff—actually way mellower stuff like Boyz II Men, Brian McKnight and Destiny’s child.
You could only imagine how difficult it is to consolidate our ideas and turn them into songs:
Me: So yeah check this out [plays and sings a song I wrote]: “Used to pray for one reprise, but now I fear your misleading eyes…”
JL: Dude, too soft. We need to Rockify it somehow.
Leslie: I agree man. Why don’t we start off with this? [Plays a really stupid beat that reminds me of cheerleading contests]
Me: [Quite happy that everybody’s putting their two cents worth on my song] Yeah we could try that out, I actually think I need to rock this a key lower. I originally wrote this to be sung by a girl you see.
JL/Leslie: [both murmur in agreement]
James: You know what would totally rock ass? Why don’t we put some sort of spoken shit just after my solo?
Me: [pleased] That could work! Especially since the entire twist of the song is that it’s being read off a letter written by somebody who died…
James: I’m actually thinking of quoting something from The Bible dude.
Everyone else: …
James: You know something from the book of Revelations. That’s some really scary shit. Or maybe a passage from the book of Moses…
Me: You mean Exodus? [Thinking of a way to let him down gently or basically tell him how his idea sucks salty balls] Well, what I have in mind is for this song to be a power ballad, but if you can establish some sort of connection between reading biblical passages and the mood of the song, then I’m all ears.
James: Well you see, your song is about lost love right? And there was a lot of love lost between the Jews and God during the time of Moses right? Besides, Moses liberated the slaves man! And isn’t that like why we’re playing? To liberate minds?
Me: I don’t know dude, I think that’s a little too much for this song, why don’t we try that on one of our heavier…
James: Liberate your mind man, LIBERARTE YOUR MIND! [does that stupid rock symbol. With his thumb.]
Me: It’s not that I don’t like the idea, it’s just that…
James: You’re no Moses dude. You’re not even a fucking Abraham!
Everyone else: [stifling chuckles]
Me: What has that got to do with—
James: Liberate your mind man! And maybe THEN you could be fucking Moses.
Me: I want beer. You want some beer dude? Anybody else want beer?
I know you’re like “WTF MIKE! Cut the musicel shit and get to the funnies already! You stupet wannabe pozer lol!!1” But come on! This is the only non geek stuff I could be proud of right now. I’m just so excited to see how all of this would turn out that sometimes my excitement oozes forth in the form of urine on my underpants. So you know, don’t be jealous, start your own band or something instead of raining on my awesome parade.
–
For those of you who just tuned in and only now realized how awesome this blog is, I’ve been suffering from bouts of panic attacks. For a few months, I’ve sought medical treatment for my condition and have only recently broken off my relationship with my shrink.
It’s not that I don’t think the treatment’s doing me any good. Au contraire, I feel that the treatment has helped me a lot in terms of both coping with my anxiety disorder and understanding it. The thing is, psychiatric treatment costs a lot of money and I don’t earn enough to continually seek it. I realized that I’m too poor to pay 2,000 pesos to see my shrink twice a month. </violins
Actually, I’m now spending my 2 grand on alternative treatment(read: getting massages from my “girlfriend” in Majestic Monumento) so all’s good.
The problem is, recently, I’ve been experiencing extreme mood swings and I find myself crying over the littlest of things. Earlier today, my brother and I were planning to watch Nacho Libre but we ended up totally missing it and settling for stupid Pirates of the Caribbean no thanks to the fucking PlayStation. Was pirates good? Hell fucking no. Am I gonna masturbate to Keira Knightley with the aid of an empty cola bottle later? Most likely. Bottom line is that I’m bummed out for missing Nacho Libre.
Anyway, suffering from Jack Black deficiency, I popped in School of Rock in the DVD player. The movie was a moderately funny movie but the strange thing is that during the funniest scenes, I got all upset and started crying. What the fuck’s up with this? Is this even normal?
I seriously think that all I’m just craving for female companionship. I mean REAL companionship and not the ones you pay thousands of pesos a single ejaculation for. I need to start dating again but even this is a challenge considering that I am in the IT industry and we all know how women in the IT industry look like.
So, the problem really is that I’m not meeting enough women. And this is where you could help me out. If you know anybody with questionably low morals and self esteem maybe you can hook me up. Send over a picture, contact details and a summary of her criminal record (if any) to god @ man-blog dot com. That is all, thank you.
–
If you ask me what my inspiration is as far as blogging would go, I’d probably say cocaine and emails like this:
Your writing makes me laugh out loud. Which is noteworthy because (1) things are rarely funny in print; (2) you have good grammar; and ( 3) I' m a pretentious, hard-to-please, stiff-ass ed lawyer.
You should really think about charging people for access to your site. Let 's discuss it sometime. And my cut. Kidding.
I thoroughly enjoy your work , and just had to send a recognition (which, like many other millions claim, " I don' t usually do") ,
Mia
I don’t know what it is about my writing style but I just realized that there are a lot of lawyers who read this blog. Now the questions that begged to be asked are:
1.) Mia, are you single?
2.) If you are, are you looking for a boyfriend?
3.) If you answered yes to question number 2, do you mind if potential boyfriend is 40 pounds overweight?
4.) And cannot consummate the relationship? (when drunk)
Seriously, keep them good vibes coming. These are the only real reasons why I continue to publicly make a fool out of myself on the internet.
And about charging people for access to my blog; I don’t think so. I just don’t believe that’s the way to go. Although I wouldn’t mind a book or TV deal like Jason Mulgrew over here. I’d give up a testicle if I could even be half as famous as the fucker.
I know there are like Magazine people who read this shit, come on guys, let’s keep an open mind here! If People Magazine in the US can feature an unattractive, overweight blogger as one of their 50 hottest bachelors, why can’t we?
Think about it.
Have a good week everyone!
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
