I am suddenly into this habit of making anatomical reforms. I
took some alcohol yesterday, now I took daylight’s warmth for breakfast. I cannot
remember any day last year that I am up for a 6 AM jogging, least with the
mayor. Among SK chairpersons in the city, I am alone in believing that jogging
is a futile activity. Jogging inspections with the Mayor is of course another
thing, but jogging itself is a waste of energy.

SK chairpersons in Olongapo are required to join the
bi-weekly Jogging Inspection spearheaded by the city Mayor. The concept of the program
is to jog around from one barangay to another and study the physical condition of
each constituency. Together with the Mayor is a team composed of his consultants,
city administrators, barangay officials and of course the youth sector.

The setup of the program is more of electioneering than
public service, I so observed. Although I do not question the Mayor’s vision
towards a better Olongapo, I cannot possibly overlook the other agenda. Strategy
is the word. Consider this:

A loudspeaker will wake you as early as 6:30 in the morning.
A familiar voice is greeting. Another minute you will recognize the voice, it’s
Mayor’s. And he is the busiest person in town. You’ll hear him talk about road
concreting, waste management, drainage declogging and a whole bunch of heroism.
I have no problems with developing the city; I only have problems with the
loudspeaker. He works better who works discreetly, as I was taught.

I didn’t go throughout the trek; I cannot stand the heat, of
the sun and of those who posed as if they are as mighty as hell. I swear most of
the mayor’s right hands are snob, hot-blooded goblins, you can fry eggs on
their bald heads. So I went home halfway the crusade, I left the other SK all
alone.

I forgot to tell you that before we started off jogging, we
were inducted first at Olongapo Wesley School.
And then we did a little stretching there. I’m proud to say that I was well
applauded during the ceremony, probably because I was the only one in black and
my hair flailed with the air with every move. Huh.

So now I am home. And I’ll be home for the rest of the day.

Last night I went to see some friends at a billiard hall. Boy I hate loud places and I equally hate breathing clouds of cigar smoke. But I love cueing more than any sports, so I went. They made me drink two bottles of San Mig light— a record-breaking feat! The last time I was able to finish a bottle of what they teasingly call lady’s drink happened last Christmas eve. It always gives me allergic reaction whenever I drink however moderate. And I always feel bad right away after the first shot. At one bottle down I was already tipsy; I wonder how they can manage to gulp seas of booze. I call it talent.

Cueing WAS my other talent until I realized it had towed me miles away from my ambitions; in other words, it helped me bloom into a full-blown bum. I cut classes for pool sessions, I did betting and touring. I pawned anything I can to sustain the vice. Worst of all, I squandered precious times.

“I sleep on pool tables” is a common joke among cueists, “I almost made it to Japan” is the other. I can only frown over the jokes.

It was pass 3 A.M. when I called off. It made them laugh that I looked given up so they played tricks on me. They conspired with a familiar bitchy fag there to do me further harm. Boy the fag is hot, she looked like Manny Pacqiuao. But as soon as they heard me utter the foulest of words, which is never so common of me, they escorted me right away down the stairs. I can’t blame them for loving me so much. All they wanted is to give me some nasty fun.

I went home walking despite their insistence of driving me home. It’s not that far from home and I want to train myself on motor-control because I am preparing for the big night. The big night will be the grand assembly of Gods invoking the power of beer.  The big night can only happen in the presence of my truer friends, over a round table, under the infinite blackness of the sky, beyond the usual invocation of spirits.

We will not talk about theories there. We will not argue about isms, we will not wank each others brains. Instead, we will talk about the memories, we will share about deepest secrets. And ultimately, we will do a blood compact like what they did on Katipunan. And then we will sip on each others sores, we will sip on each others tears, until we memorize the taste of intimacy.

Oh, how sweet is the thought, how bitter is reality. Intimacy sucks.

They don’t even dare read my blogs. Where is intimacy in that? I give them all the benefits of a doubt. Where’s my congratulations that I am suddenly in love? Where’s the promise of supporting my senatorial ambition? Where’s their signature here? I will give all of you them benefits of a clout!

I will not regret that I drank last night with friends I don’t call my own. At least they care enough to knock on my silence. They know that because they read me. Here and beyond. I blog because I don’t go out too often, I lock myself alone dreaming and loving my sugarfree in her remoteness. At least they sense my longing for company.  Last night was an eye-opening experience. Yet I still hope that the big night with the Gods will be realized. How do you say "tampo" in english, anyone?

-o0o-

Rashes on my chest. Rashes on my thighs. It’s morphin’ time!

Where’s Kim, Melai, Megs and Lyan?

-o0o-

Let me tell you about Regina Spektor.

She‘s a friend of a friend. And since FRIEND is a conductive element– her electricity runs through and through so I can feel her. I can feel that she writes for me. She spends time perfecting her avant-garde music so that she may PLEASE me; whereas an average person spends forever perfecting mediocrity so that I may cry: PLEASE!!!

Regina is a constant visitor; one who timely visits me in my solitude. And she morphs just like my mood. She stands between me and Sorrow, outperforming Sorrow’s wintry whistling. I succumb to her.

Regina sings like the unpredictable heaven. Sometimes tranquil, sometimes rageful. My room has traveled around the firmament of music, as if it has entered a wormhole: song after song is world after world as she sings her heart. Regina Spektor defies gravity and religion, every single law of physics and metaphysics. She carries me intimately into another dimension humankind has yet to give name.

You can learn more about Regina in the Wikipedia. You can even ask Google to introduce her to you, but not you to her. She won’t find you like she has found me. You must have Erinkist to do the magic.

And so the magic continues: the “Regina Spektor Experience”.

After a week of intimacy with with  Regina, I developed the kind of addiction Alex DeLarge has for Beethoven. Regina’s psychedelics can elicit the same effect as listening to Paganini or watching Hitchcock’s Vertigo. The goosebumps, the neurotic excitation, the spasms. I don’t encourage you to watch Vertigo, it’s a cult. You better watch a lot of Pinoy Indie Films, they are fairly watchable and prideable art. Or if you still can’t find a way to waste time bigtime, try and apply for Annie Hall fan’s club, we are still accepting candidates. You only have to watch the movie twenty six deadening times, and you’re in. I am really sorry but the “Regina Spektor Fellowship” is limited only for Erinkist, Bum and their alteregoes.

So what if there are Spektor fans here?

If there are Spektor fans here, they should get out and be heard. They sure know what I am talking about. They can blog about their silly dreams too. They can blog about having a date with Paris Hilton or Palmela Handerson (masturbation). They can always show up and accuse me of delirium. But, delirium, is, the, Spektor, effect.

And, I, don’t, know, more.

—oo0oo—

Currently listening to: Flyin’ by Regina Spektor

Currently thinking about: Virna and the complexities of Virnification.

Unread YahooMail messages: 2079

—oo0oo—

MY SUGARFREE

I quit. I can no longer fake it. I quit. You are too good to be a victim. I quit. I remember my mother. I quit. I remember my sister. I quit. I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and, hell I quit. I am afraid of eternal damnation. I quit. I am suddenly quitting. I quit.

You too should quit. You don’t deserve me. Go quit. You are still young and so promising. Go quit. Remember Pinocchio? Remember Gloria Macapagal Arroyo? Remember the snake from the garden of Eden? Remember? Go ahead, choose not what ONLY appeared to be good. I, like them, lied too.

Still your friend,

Kuiah Bum.

That was my letter dated April 04, 2005 addressing a fifteen year-old girl who really thought we were meant for each other. I did that only so she might hate me. Unfortunately, she didn’t grasp the idea.

Then she went unseen and unheard for almost two years.

Until I saw her last night. No. My Ate saw her last night. But as ate kept detailing the incident, I almost saw her. “She hasn’t lost the charm, only her virginity”, Ate revealed. The once teensy-weensy girl who fills my message inbox with cuteness and everything, who frequents me in the house only to flaunt her thinly-veiled skin, is now, thanks to the letter I wrote, a mother. I cautioned her about the snake, she fell for the one-eyed cobra. I still couldn’t believe the news.

Should I be blamed? Perhaps yes.

If not of my resolve to push her out, she might still be here with me, knitting poetry instead of playing fire; watching the rainbow instead of bathing in slime.  But I only pushed her out because I did not trust my feelings for her then. I thought I will be betraying her trust as we live along. I thought letting her out is the better way of paying her love back. I was wrong.

Yet anyways, it did me justice.

I could have been a father. Thank God, I’m still not.

Blogging is Masturbation. If blogging is anything, it is self-gratification. One does not blog for other people, unless one is hired or compelled. One does not blog because of love towards another; one does not know how to love but to blog. One masturbates not because he or she loves you. One masturbates because one loves itself.

You are not reading a cynic’s manifesto. And the title is not in any way related to a poem from Macleish. This is just to intrigue you and I don’t know how to start with this entry. I am still sad that my last article aroused not a single comment, which for me is inarguably saddening. Being merely read is not as rewarding as being received and accosted. Despite that, I still maintain my stand that blogging is the solace of the once repressed minds and hearts. The beauty in blogging resides in the fact that it frees. Blogging is no masturbation as I have deliberately indict earlier. Blogging is sex between the me and the world. The world is not always as big as earth or is not always anything that is earth, and the me is not always the self.

The primary reason why I write so often these past few days is to communicate my love, my love for her. Because I cannot touch her, because I cannot kiss her, because I cannot smell her or let her smell me, I write. I could catch a butterfly to carry my whispers of love unto her. But I decided to blog how I feel instead, for them to know. I don’t love discreetly, I always want witnesses. Call me showy but that’s how I love.

I attempted several times to make a how-do-I-love-thee poem for her. But I guess my muse is not ready for that. I can’t even make a coherent prose.

Enough of the third-person. I’ll talk to you, the singular you, here and now…

My sugarfree, like Rey Valera, I don’t smoke. You know what I mean of course. I have read your reply to my love-of-a-loser entry and I am happy that you have matured and you have learned the anatomy of loving.

I will wait until you recuperate from the wounds that came in encounter with the roughness of love. And if it is love that wounded you, let love cure you through me. Now I sound so trite, but I care less. This is not the usual bum who advocates the love of art among many other things. This is not love of art any longer, but the art of love.

Lovapalooza also sounds like love-of-a-lost-soul. Only you and I can hear the similarity.

Anyway, I invite you to come. I am preparing a breakaway party for self-proclaimed soloists this Valentine season. Let us break the world record for the largest group of individuals embracing themselves, if there is any record.

What better way to treat myself than to blog about her. I treat myself thru thinking about her, talking about her, dreaming about her. Blogging about her is a three-in-one treat. I think as I talk as I dream about her as I blog. I am in love with a human, that’s the news.

The bum is in love. Well, who pays interest? Let me count heads… Ahhhm…

There are fifty eight people who have read or at least visited my blog; only five of them ever spoke. At least I have got readers. The thought of it suddenly inspires me to continue telling the story.

So the bum is in love with a human who has limbs, who has teeth, who has sense of humor. The human is a girl. They call each other sugarfree. Because according to the bum, their friendship is free or should be free from sugarcoated hypocrisy. What is hypocrisy by the way? Give three examples of hypocrisy. How does hypocrisy affect the global commerce? Is hypocrisy the worst policy or should I stop writing instead? Hypocrisy, as for me, is when you don’t love. Period.

We love. That’s why we agreed upon the pseudonym. Sugarfree by the way is coincidentally a name of a favorite band: the one who did “Tulog Na”, one of the more poetic OPM songs in recent history. But the band nor their music has nothing to do with our friendship. We are yet to have a lovesong. We are yet to sing together under a single bed, the thing she and her ex often did—that was according to her. And whenever she talks about her past romances, I burn in redhot jealousy. I can’t explain why I am so much into her. Psychology won’t help.

Do I love? Or I just hype the feeling? I have a way of testing it: I move away. I abstain from the person for a certain period of time, say one week. I am not an absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder type of friend. I am an absence-breeds-insecurity freak. If anyone draws away from me, deliberately or not, I axe him/her out of my friends list. No, not in friendster. Friendster is not about friendships, it is all about ostentations.

So anyways, my abstinence test result says: I am positive with the lovebug. I am in love. Who is to blame? I mean, who is to thank?

Virna.

Why her? Why not Gloria Macapagal Arroyo?

Ok, let me correct it. I am in love and I owe it to Virna and to Gloria. To Virna because she fills my blackblack world with the colors of her smile, with the music of her chuckles, with the light of her sincerity; to Gloria because she has pushed me to the limits of hatred that I am nowhere to go but to love.

I don’t want to spoil this blog with further political sentimentalism. I would not stain this page with certain reeking names. And I want to set things clear, I didn’t say I only love Virna because I hate the elf in Malacanang so much. I love Virna because she has won the battle I arranged for the two of us. The very same battle Kim had won overwhelmingly against me. Ironically, the battle is fought by two people who evade each other. The first to quit evading is declared defeated. In the case of Virna I am not sure whether she plays my game or not. Nevertheless, she proved to be irresistible.

I am in love. Take me my sugarfree.

No. I am not self-congratulatory. I am self-mocking. I am being ironic when I say fruitful. I could mean zero since the usual shape of a fruit is a roundround Ow.

I confess: they made a bad choice electing me. I made a bad choice electing myself also. Worst regret, I made a bad choice running at all. I could not have been exposed to the dirty game called politics. The game from which only a handful of people get through without their souls devirginized. You guessed it right; my soul is no more a virgin, the dop (dirty old politics) has touched her. And since he has touched her, I shall arrange their marriage. I will pursue the game.

There is no stopping the local elections in May and Barangay elections are set on October. The latter is still suspect according to DILG. There are several considerations that may preempt the conduct of two major elections within a single year. Should Barangay elections be postponed, our terms will be stretched until 2011. We will make it to the Guinness Book of World Records.

This early, I already am receiving several offers from various political allies, particularly from the disintegrated local opposition. Our family had always been a raucous detractor of the reigning dynasty in Olongapo and I am expected to follow the same track. Butbutbut, I don’t have that kind of thinking. I do not patronize certain personalities, my loyalty belongs to reasons, my loyalty is with ideals. The local opposition here has never proved anything except that they oppose the incumbency only during elections. The fact that they would pick me to their ticket despite my poor performance during the last five years of office is a testament to the kind of politics they promise: the politics of wolves.

And those who keep company with the wolves will learn how to howl.

If howling also means lying, I can attest to the veracity of the proverb. Lying is the necessary evil you can master inside this institution. Since I spent five years with the pack, I have learned the tricks. But of course you can always choose to become honest. The only problem is you won’t stay in power for honesty. You cannot win the people’s trust with honesty. In politics, the rule is that you can lie, you can steal; just don’t let yourself be caught. No, you can afford to get caught if you afford the price of law. Oh, how cynical I am!

Wellwell, before you accuse me of being resigned to the evil the politics is, I better present my agenda for reforms. A single objective that encompasses all objectives for eternal betterment:

Art will rule.

If accomplished, a great deal of problems will be eliminated. Imagine a world that wallows in music, in colors, in poetry. Imagine.

The love of money is not the root of all evil; it is the apathy towards art that is. Stupidity is not the real cause of poverty, the lack of appreciation in art is. The materialist will equate, poverty is: the intensity of the desire times the market value of desire over resources. Let it not us to desire the world, let the world desire us. I only wish to have the power to cure an impoverished soul, and that could only be possible thru the power of art. The Art is God. The Art is Spiritual.

As I have said earlier, I too suffer from the poverty of soul. Not only that she is impoverished, she has been fucked. How could a fucked up soul heal other fucked up souls?

I shall arrange the marriage between my soul and the dop(dirty old politics). They shall vow to compensate each other at the altar of Art.

You can help me by attending the ceremony.

So you got a job. Congratulations! Don’t ask me about my job or if I am still in school, I won’t ask back. I can see that you are itching to announce that you landed a job at a call center in Manila. I can see by the way you look, you are wondering what went wrong with me. I can sense by the way you talk; my fate makes you feel a hundred feet taller. You ask, “what keeps you busy my friend?” My friend my ass! Before you even decided to ask, you already have several things to associate me with: porn, drugs, psychosis etc. And I know you will be upset to hear that art is all I am about. You really wish to hear a miserable tale from me.

Speaking of miserable, your idea of education is miserable and narrow. You carry with you the mag-aaral-ako-upang-magkatrabaho syndrome. I carry with me the bakit-ko-pag-aaralan-ang-hindi-ko-kailangang-matutuhan disposition. That explains why I hate the role of the school in my development. Let not school interfere with my education I always lament. Of course outside the academe I cannot earn a diploma—the single most important piece of paper according to the herd. Yes we all need the effing document to validate our social substance. Outside the academe you cannot earn such substantiation. Yet inside the school, I just cannot earn self-respect.

Speaking of respect, I have nothing against those who finished in school and those who stay. I actually envy their kind of patience; I respect them generally. I just hate it when some people would be brandishing their so-called accomplishments in front of my so-called misfortune. You just cannot feel the triumph of an artist. Yes, I’m still talking about you.

It’s a sadsad fact that our system of education is predicated on enabling the students to find job. It mustn’t be as narrow as that. The point of education is not just to enable the students to find work; it is to enable the students to think. The point of education is not just to impart skills, it is to impart vision. The point of education is to bequeath to the world a generation that can think, that can aspire to know the what and the why and not just the how.

I sound sour-graping? It sounds like I was just making justifications as to why I didn’t succeed in school? Oh, you can laugh at this attempt of mine to mask my personal frustrations. I’ve already heard that several times. But to my heart is where I listen to. And it speaks not self-pity and regret, it shouts justice.

The question is not: who is studying?. The question is: who is learning?. So please don’t lecture on me the merits of your choices, and the perils of mine.

Jail yourself with effing traditions. My name is freedom.

“I lose a friend every other month. Not only that, I gain enemies at the same rate. Wait. Not only that, I’ve lost the very sense of distinguishing between friends and enemies.” —-

Erinkist, an underrated 21^st century bumist.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. The friend of my enemy is my enemy. Unfortunately, life cannot always be reduced to logic, or algebra. So what if life is the enemy? Who is the friend? Who is life’s enemy? Was it not us? Then: if we and life are enemies, who is left to be the enemy?

Conclusion: we are all friends, life is our sole enemy. And all we do is driven by the idea of fighting the life. An older poem of mine reads: “handa ako kailanmang ang buhay ay bumangon, mag-inat-inat at maghamon ng sapakan”.

Just this day, the war-freak, life-sucking life, for the nth time, caught me somewhere in my idlehood. It was a typical day, a little less than ordinary day, so to speak. A sunny Saturday, the heat is able to intrude the house. Already exhausted from a trip, I was almost sleepy until a call from a friend alarmed me. It was Megs, the prodigy, the virtuoso, fresh from

Makati

, forewarning me a sudden visit. To refuse such a royal offer is the least among the options. With Megs are Felix and an unfamiliar face; they broke into my silenced solitude. We snacked a little. We talked and there it went; another call from a sucker named Rich. Suddenly we are four— out to go places and find the starlet better known as Coi.

Rich picked the three of us with his car and drove as we planned to surprise Coi (Rich’s long-time fantasy) and invite her to join our road trip. We went wild before we reached the targeted place. We laughed like crazy, with the wind smacking our faces. We shrieked evilly like the wheels resisting the friction. And yes we arrived at the place, only for them to destroy the momentum. Thank God they are all naïve and I am all calloused. I was assigned to act as the spokesperson. Facing Coi’s relatives proved to be a challenge; I felt like being tried for burglary. We left the place empty-handed. Not a single Coi.

So we went to Goto-Gate at my insistence. We snacked a bit more there. Why the place is jocosely labeled as the cannibals’ heaven” is a story I am not in the mood to tell. All that matter is we felt refueled enough for another expedition. An expedition sooooooo important that I accidentally gave away a friendship. (those who do not know about irony is discouraged to continue from reading)

The problem with me is that I always volunteer to help other people. The problem with me is that I take it as my problem other people’s problems. Yeah! I always here you folks, “mind your own business Bum”! That’s the problem, I haven’t got no fucking business to keep my fucking life busy. I am a bum, remember? I am a Dadaist, a bohemian, a penniless bard, a blackbird singing in the dead of night. My job is to infect you with my blackness.

This is not supposed to be a sadsad or a blackblack blog entry. But I couldn’t say black without being it. I couldn’t say sad without being it. Such words are too powerful! I am suddenly a squid squirting my blackness all over the page. HEAR ME SCREAM!!!

It only took me less than a minute to lose the friend I always thought I could keep for life. I wish I just misplaced her. I wish she just misplaced herself. I wish I didn’t lose her. I could have been more proper. I could have been more prudent. Oh, how sad are the words “I could have been”. But here are the real problems:

The enemy of her friend/lover is her enemy

I am her friend’s/lover’s enemy more than I am ever her friend

She does not bury a hatchet. (what is more inhuman than to keep enemies)

By the way, if anyone is reading. Let me provide you with enough background:

So I phoned a friend. It took my call 57 seconds. That friend can help me help a friend stalk a girl named Coi. The phone rang, I got an answer. An unfamiliar voice started speaking—a strange parade of almost inaudible sound. The words are unclear but I could sense it wasn’t a friendly answer. We exchanged messages. Until I realized I wasn’t talking to a friend but to a reluctant stranger. Twelve seconds after, I spotted two teenagers walking towards the friend’s house; I thought I knew the other one, the much younger one. And so I approached him in a manner thrashers and punks greet each other. (I tell you it’s not so formal.) I asked them whether they know a certain friend (name forbidden here as vowed). Later they would introduce themselves as the friend’s (name forbidden here) little brother and dear classmate.

Six minutes later, the friend left the house and has shown up. There she was in a hurry, we almost didn’t catch her. She looked tired and serious. Then I went asking her favors regarding the whereabouts of Coi, the oh so special starlet. She gave quick responses. The last is that she was in a hurry for her class. All I ever wanted is to get her attention for the last time before she could leave because we haven’t talked for so long and I already missed her. Everyone can attest to that.

Yes, sometimes my roughness is unbearable. I yelled at her. I was imprudent. “whoever answered me on the phone, he sounded like a fag!” I yelled to her teasingly. But that was just for laughs. Nothing else, nothing real personal. Although I already have clues on who is behind the voice that provoked me moments earlier.

After that we went on exchanging hate messages. It was an ugly idea, but we are besieged with strong emotions then. I never went that mad before. I’ve lost control of myself. I was determined to smite the adversary at all cost. And I knew she felt the same way. When we are furious we mean half of what we speak. When the anger ceases, we begin to realize our own foolishness. And we will regret that we cannot take back the words we sling against each other.

It took me almost an hour writing this. It only took me 37 seconds to lose a friend. 

And if tomorrow I post another blog about this story, it only means she has not yet accepted my apologies.

It was a night like no other. Not because I went to Kim. Not because we talked. But because I went to her only to forget where I am headed next. Usually I visit her because I missed her. Last night she was my escape goat. It was a sadsad night. First because I have to bury a past, and then, I have to garnish the grave with pink petals I can collect from her. Kim has always been my source of light. Kim is a smile is a pink is a song is a life. It was a sadsad night.

We talked. We always make a good conversation. Yesteryears, it was always me talking. Nowadays, as she improved geometrically at expressing her thoughts, she earned the license to lecture me. Only few people can lecture me. No, only non-people can do.

Usually she starts off like a cold motor engine. She waits for herself to warm up. Quick nods, short throttles, throat-clearing, lowered voice, unready. But then as we take off, the fuel starts to burn and all I know is that she has taken me to a ride I have not experienced yet– to a kind of talk close to orgasm. Kim is indeed therapeutic. I almost forgot where I am headed next. I almost forgot I am gonna cry moments after.

An hour and a half of forgetting. Kim’s company is sure to provide me relief. If only I could make myself closer to her, I would. Because we know our friendship unlike any other is a passive one. We never dined outside, we never went to movies outside, we never stroll outside the ten-yard-boundary set by her mom, we’ve never been to a jeep together, and we never even attend each others birthdays. But we survived despite that. We made a world out of our talks. We traveled thru ideas, we meet different characters, we even fuck philosophically.

So what have we discussed that sadsad night. As I have said, it was not so usual a night. At least we can pretend to be the usual people talking about unusual thoughts. Like: “Wowowee” being the greatest T.V show ever to grace the Philippine Television. Unusual isn’t it? Wowowee is a joke? No.

Wowowee is an accidental psychology class. If you disgust psychology, shall I say, if you disgust extra thinking, you better skip this. We arrived at the conclusion that Wowowee is the greatest example of a socio-political realism. It does not discuss its depth; it lets us discover the truth. The sadsad truth. Wowowee is not merely a game show; it is a breathing testament to the rapid depreciation of humanity thanks to poverty. I see Wowowee not as a charity show, but as a bittersweet symphony of pure emotions: Sincerity, superficiality, triumph, desperation just to name a few. Ironically, when people there tend to become superficial, it only further proves how human they are and how real as life the game show is.

Another thing that we’ve discussed is Yeng Constantino and the PDA. Kim exclaims: “Yeng Constantino is a celebration of Mediocrity”. She just hates it when mediocre people are being hyped. I also do. But I liked Yeng and I don’t think that she is a mediocrity. We don’t argue further since I admit I didn’t follow the show as she did. We talked and I almost forgot where I am headed next. We talked and I almost forgot I am gonna cry moments after.

And so our talk ended. As usual, it ended without our consent. Her mother called it off. Then I remember where I am headed next. It was a sadsad night.

By the way, I guess only 3 % of Friendster users cared about politics. So I guess it isn’t a clever idea to advertise political agendas here.

So what do I care about statistics? I will run for the senate and I want to declare it here first. If anyone cared enough, I’ll be the happiest freak alive.

This day, January 15, officially opens the election period–the most hysterical, comical and farcical elections in the entire globe if not in the whole universe- the Philippine Local Elections, simultaneous with the Philippine Senatorial Election. During such seasons, the world suddenly changes. Unfamiliar people are being more gregarious. Government services don’t falter. Sweet promises fill the air like butterflies flying around. Only the school teachers and election officials go haywire that they forget how to count correctly in the canvassing. The whole procedure is indeed a farce. From the filing of COC (Certificate of Candidacy) to the proclamation of winners, everything is a tiresome gag. I said it is a gag, then why am I tempted to enter the labyrinth of politics? It might sound ambitious of me if not absurd that I am determined to apply a certificate of candidacy for the senatorial slot. Let me explain later. Or let me explain no more.

Wait. Oh, I can’t run. There’s the law. You have to be at least 35 years of age to apply for a candidacy in the senate. How sad. Where else but in my situation does the phrase dura lex sed lex apply. Yesterday I loved the law, when she told me that I am legal enough to purchase a hustler video or to frequent a brothel a town away. But just today, as I reviewed the Philippine Constitution I hate her. Oh, I hate her mother-in-law too!

I hate her because she underestimates me. I hate her because she does not prevent a Lito Lapid from becoming a senator. At 21, I am more capable than Lito Lapid, or Bong Revilla. But I am not as proud that I am more capable than them as I am proud I didn’t vote them. I wrote my name on the ballot last elections together with the other deserving candidates. That I vote myself is a subversive joke, but voting another Lito or Bong or Jinggoy nonetheless is a crime maybe not against the law, but a crime against reason.

Ok. I am helpless. The law has won against me. What can I do next? Wait for another 14 years? Run for Barangay Kagawad instead? Join the extremists, leftists? I have many alternatives. But what thrills me most is the idea that you’ll vote for me. Lolito Go for senate! Lolito Go for the masses. Go Go Go!

After all, I won’t win anyways.

I shall write again. And you shall read me.

You must read me because curses will plague your life if you overlook this. Your father will be hit by a trailer truck and your mother will be gang raped two weeks after your father’s burial. And you, a pathetic orphan will be forever loveless and miserable.

Those are my words. Badbad words. But at least they are a bit more persuasive than those that escape the mouths of several fucking ASStrologists (seers?) that flood the airwaves. I hate it when we welcome the New Years with them.  And I hate it even more that they earn more than I do. When all they have to do is to speak nonsense. They equivocate. Or they simply echo things that are already predictable thanks to commonsense.

What is wrong with media people? Can’t they see, those idiots are screwing the people bigtime? We spit on their faces!

Consider Rene Mariano. The man messed himself up at ABS-CBN’s "Deal or no Deal". He surely can tell you that the economy will continue to flourish or a big name from showbiz will die this year (you cant miss at that range), but all he can say to Kris (the game show host), to get away with embarrassment, is that they the so-called "SEERS" are not likely to succeed in chance games involving money. How laughable an excuse.

What else but "chance-game-involving-money" shall I describe their little tricks. Next to Mike and Gloria Arroyo, they are the country’s most despicable whores.

I would love to stab them in their sleep.

Did I say I shall write again? How about writing my own list of fearless forecast? It is never a bad idea anyways…

Ok let me start it out with an icon. (parenthesized sentences are morbid jokes, you may ignore them):

Manny Pacqiuao will lose the battle with Barrera.

(Pacqiuao will then be losing several major contracts, advertisements, guest appearances. He will also lose the other succeeding fights until he goes broke and fanless. His political dreams will come to naught. He will end up being a videoke master. His team-up with Lito Camo will spawn an album that will be launched at Master Showman Presents,  Janno Gibbs will take over the then deceased German Moreno.)

Here’s another one:

The Administration ticket will dominate the elections and PGMA will be assassinated August this year.

(The country will continue to endure its ugly fate. The opposition will contest the election results. Outraged people will frequent the streets. Riots will spark everywhere in the metro manila. Coup plotters will invoke the help of terrorists. GMA shall die in a blast. Mike Arroyo, JDV, Ignacio Bunye, Prospero Pichay, Edcel Lagman, will follow. They all will die in a blast. After those deaths, it will begin to snow in the

Philippines

. The color of the snow is pink.)

What else shall I write?

I remember telling a friend that she shouldn’t take my words so seriously, especially when I speak about the future. I guess you didn’t know that I am indeed bequeathed with inexplicable talent of foretelling. I joke a lot. Give me your name and your birthday and I shall tell you whether you will finish college or not. Of course I do miss. At least I don’t equivocate. You won’t hear me saying, “it depends”. I always give a straight answer. Show me your eyes and I will tell in front of your friends that you are a restrained homosexual.

I told my friend, sometimes I tell you not what I know about the future. Because, hell, I really can’t tell. I just give you my words. I only happened to be more than the usual human but still I am human. Actually, I told her, I speak in behalf of my hopes. Because I am helpless I just hope. Because I cannot alter what is planned, I just hope. I speak what I hope most of the time. And those unclefucking idiots I am talking about earlier don’t do as I do. Anybody can imitate them unclefucking hoaxes.

Did I please you? What can I say? It is never my job to brighten up your day…