One of the worst things about my mental condition is that it makes me predisposed to experiencing crippling bouts of Dysphoria. For me, Dysphoria manifests itself as an episode–I don't even know if I could call it an episode as my dysphoric bouts last for days on the average–as a severely unpleasant, uncomfortable mood which usually rears its ugly head with a pinch of hypochondria. This means that for an entire day, I cannot help but be anxious about every fucking thing and be irrationally afraid of disease/death that at this moment, I am quite sure I am going to die because I have a minor headache which I am stubbornly insisting to be a brain hemorrhage.
Before, I alleviate this dysphoria/hypochondira the best way I know–to beat my dick like it owes me money. This usually causes me to snap out of it almost instantaneously and puts me in a state of heightened alertness. No thanks to the drugs I'm taking however, I can't even masturbate decently. I've tried everything really, from playing my favorite porn clips in my media player to imagining a Swedish midget dancing on top of a table naked (which, prior to everything, hasn't failed me) but I just can't get myself to orgasm.
I found out why. It turns out that one of the pills I'm taking (Lexapro which is escitalopram oxalate/SSRI) has some rather sad side effects. According to Wikipedia
SSRIs can cause various types of sexual dysfunction such as anorgasmia, erectile dysfunction, and diminished libido. Initial studies found that such side effects occur in less than 10% of patients, but since these studies relied on unprompted reporting, the frequency was probably underestimated. In more recent studies, doctors have specifically asked about sexual difficulties, and found that they are present in between 41%[3] and 83% of patients.[4] This dysfunction occasionally disappears spontaneously without stopping the SSRI, and in most cases resolves after discontinuance. In some cases, however, it does not; this is known as PSSD.
So you could imagine me drunk as fuck in my bathroom with my pants around my ankles, swaying back and forth furiously flogging my penis to no avail, before eventually ending up sweaty, popping a Lionel Ritchie CD in my stereo and crying myself to sleep while nursing a sore dick.
I have a brain hemorrhage my friend and I'm quite certain that this is it. My brain's bleeding out, I am anxious and aroused as hell–mostly aroused though–and I know that I am going to be checking out of this world and moving onto the next which is, if it's still not obvious, hell.
I am positive that my death is imminent, I can smell it. And on that note, I would like to thank everybody who has sent me fanmail over my short yet sweet blogging career. You have been nothing but a source of great inspiration for me and for those rare few that I checked out on Friendster or MySpace, a source of a lot of my masturbatory fantasies as well.
However, I am not one to take death lightly and I am very very bitter right now. With that said, I would like it to be known that I would haunt the shit out of everybody who has visited this site. So if you're a guy, the next time you're taking a poop and you feel a gentle tug on your left testicle, that's me. Say hello. If you're a girl, and you're in the toilet peeing, Well I don't know, I haven't thought about it yet.
So this is it my friends. I bid thee farewell but not before one last request: Please don't be cheap bastards and give biscuits, flowers or coffee on my funeral. Instead, give money. Lots of it. Because last week, I stole my mom's credit card and used it to buy drinks for everybody at the local garment factory. I mean, those guys were really good to me (except for that time they accused me of cheating on a card game and threw me off a bridge) so I decided to give something back to them before I kick the bucket. Also, I think I might've messed up on the Colombian deal I was talking to you guys about and really, once they find out that I lost 20 Kilograms of cocaine in a cockfight, nobody's going to come out a winner.
Please pray for me. I love you guys!
As a testament to how terrible I am with money, how much of an impulsive buyer I am(I once bought a guitar pick from a high school classmate for three hundred pesos after he convinced me that it belonged to Kurt Cobain. But that's for an entirely new post) and how I will, sooner or later, send my life swan diving into the asphalt because of the terrible decisions I make; I bought a notebook online. Moleskine. Worth 1,200 pesos.
I know this isn't much for most of you guys but you're not earning four thousand pesos a payday like I am. So you know, fuck off and judge somebody else.
Anyway, I already bought a Moleskine (which is pronounced mol-a-skeen-a. Yes I'm smart) notebook for my fiancee a couple of weeks ago and wrote a really romantic poem which, I hope she doesn't find out, is really nothing but a couple of lines from an obscure Hall and Oates song on the first page as a Valentine's present.
As I was packing the notebook, I noticed the text on the wrap-around label that came with the notebook: It said "The legendary notebook of Hemingway, Picasso and Chatwin." Because I have an inflated feeling of pride in my superiority over other people and I have delusions of being a celebrity, I thought "Hey, if Hemingway used this notebook maybe I should drop one and a half large and get one for myself! I won't even consider the fact that If I make this purchase, I'll probably live off cup noodles and old pandesal for the rest of the week. And who the fuck is Chatwin?"
So yeah, I placed an order and got the package today and thought about what I'd use it for. As big a fan I am of Merlin Mann and Gina Trapani, I'm definitely not going to hack my moleskine and jump on the entire Getting Things Done bandwagon. I mean really, the only way you can get me to do things is if you promise to give me a blowjob or dance naked infront of me to the tune of "Venga Bus" by the Venga Boys while I cry and masturbate.
With that said, I have no doubts that this Moleskine, as with most of my recent purchases, will be used as nothing but a prop in my eternal dance of immorality, deceit and date rape. I see no use for the Moleskine but to stack it on top of my Stephen Hawking books while I nonchalantly sip expensive coffee, blow my money away on prepaid WiFi cards and occasionally draw stick figures engaging in sexual intercourse on my cahier at the local Starbucks; hoping attractive college girls would notice me and if I play my cards well enough, maybe even get a beejer or two. Because really, if an expensive oil-cloth covered notebook, a cheap, preppy sweater, emo glasses, an iPod and a laptop can't impress girls, I don't know what can.
God, I hate myself so much right now.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that yours truly has crossed over from moderately respected internet star/unhaver of consensual sex to moderately respected internet star who gets to interview hot women wearing shiny bikinis and gets paid to write about it on the internet/unhaver of consensual sex.
I know. The abovementioned statement is quite vague but if you've ever read even one entry on this blog, you'd know that Mike Villar is very fond of fluffy, long-winded intros that nobody even reads. Anyway, allow me to explain.
I am a very ambitious man. Someday, I dream of amassing enough wealth to allow for an early retirement so I could spend the rest of my days travelling the country, meeting new and interesting people; and most importantly, dealing a signifcant amount of damage if not totally destroying my body with drugs and alcohol. Every day I wake up and I become more and more aware of my own mortality. Realistically speaking, I think I have about twenty good years left until all the heavy drinking, substance abuse and having unprotected sex with sub-500 peso prostitutes takes its hefty toll on me.
Also, I am TERRIBLE when it comes to money. The fact that I habitually make bad, impulsive purchases (The latest being a moleskine notebook that costs 1,200 pesos. I mean what the fuck do I need a notebook for? I'm illiterate. Really, I just dictate my posts to my mom and she types it for me) only serves to compound this problem.
Imagine, I'm 24 years old and all I have is a measly 3,000 pesos in my bank account. That's just sad if not downright pathetic. I, however, have been trying everything I can to improve this financial quandary. Besides my 9-5, I also steal canned goods from the 7-11 in Zabarte road, furtively slipping Ma-Ling and Sardines into the inner pocket of my jacket while my friends distract the security guards so I can sell them to the squatters in my neighborhood for 75% of the retail price. Also, after I finalize the deal with my Colombian contacts, I'll probably start a small drug cartel somewhere in Quezon City.
Really, all I'm saying here is that at this point, I am willing to do anything for a quick buck. Except give handjobs to weird Japanese men from the back of my parked car along Roxas Boulevard. I only did that once and it's only because I didn't have enough money to pay for my last semester in college. Now, let's never talk about that again.
So when FHM asked me if I wanted to do an interview for them in exchange for a little cash and shiny bracelets, I immediately said yes; and I did so without even taking into consideration the fact that I am quite possibly the worst person anybody can ask to interview hot, bikini-clad women.
Here's my interview with Rachel Cahalane. You decide.
One thing you might notice is that despite the fact that I am the Asian Sex Champion, there are no sexy questions or anything that pertains to sex for that matter in the interview. I have a very good explanation to that:
I am a Gentleman. That is if by "Gentleman" you mean somebody who, 5 minutes prior to the interview, excused himself to masturbate into a dirty shirt lying somewhere in the studio's bathroom. Also, I get nervous around hot women. In fact, I got all paranoid and shit a mere 15 minutes into the interview and accused the interviewee of being a communist and a slut. I then proceeded to lie on the floor to do crunches and managed to do five which is like a personal best.
In my defense, I did ask a couple of sexy questions but because of the sheer vulgarity of my questions, they ended up on the cutting room floor. Also, asshole, FHM is not a porno magazine so questions like "You know, there was this one time I got high smoking some crazy leaves I found in my backyard and tried to fuck an electrical socket. Do you have any similar experiences?" are generally frowned upon.
What the fuck are you? Gestapo?
Again here's the interview, and for what it's worth, give Rachel a high rating because, I don't know. Girls like getting high ratings when they pose for sexy magazines I guess. Whatever.
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.
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
