boytropolis

officially burned out

Apparently, I hung out with Perez Hilton and Lady Gaga in Tokyo.


(From here)

Neon doesn't look too good on me, no?

For Round 3 of the Australasian Interversity Debating Championships 2009, the theme was "Sexuality". People who know me knows that the debates I am most interested in include sex. Pornography, pedophilia, gender reassignment, whatever--as long as it remotely involves your lovely sexual fun holes and poles. Kindly take a look at the motions for Australs Round 3:

1. That the gay rights movement should not support the institution of marriage.
2. That we should recognize the right of religious groups to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation.
3. That sexual education classes at school should include, but not be limited to: sexual orientation, anal sex, mutual gratification and masturbation.

Wouldn't I just love to debate that third motion. I don't even care if I get placed on Affirmative or Negative side. I don't give a shit if the parameters were set in elementary school. And the people who know me, they'd know I would just LOVE to defend the necessity of a fifth grader to learn the nooks and crannies of anal sex. Yes kids, that's the kind of world we live in.

Last night I told Fatima that I am starting to crush on this common friend of ours, then she suddenly goes on a rattle about how I should be careful with his feelings and shit. This spontaneous bout of unsolicited advice overshadowed my revelation of romantic-but-mostly-sexual thoughts about the common friend, primarily because she revealed a longtime suspicion I've been harboring...that some people, regardless of their affinity toward me, think I am a heartbreaker.

I mean, dude, I just told her: I think I am crushing on ____ right now. And then she reacts with: Huh? Why? And then without skipping a breath she says something like: I gotta tell you, if you're going to go after him you better be careful with his heart. It went something like that and then she doesn't tell me why I should tiptoe instead of walk, she just tells me that I leave my heartbreaking skills at bay.

First off, what heartbreaking skills? It's my heart that always gets trampled and turned into fertilizer. Why would people warn me about my ways and means of romantic pursuit?

Secondly, what romantic pursuit? I never go after the guys I like. The few times I did it just ended in agony (mostly on my part) so I ceased to bother. Fatima continues by saying that she thinks this minor infatuation won't last because that's how I am programmed. She's right. However, I can't predict my own actions, so she's not that right.

It really concerns me that people have this impression that I toy with other people's hearts. I don't. Maybe that's why nobody ever asks me out. I look like trouble waiting to happen.

During "Drag Me To Hell" I told my friends that I can't seem to write if I know I'm not getting paid for it. It was meant as a joke. Now it doesn't feel like one.

("I started a joke...but the joke was on me..." Chos.)

Last night I had the greasiest cheeseburger meal of my life. McDonald's Valero served me the greasiest fries and the greasiest burger in the world that even thinking of it gives me nausea.

Last night while waiting for my ride home along Ayala, I saw my Buendia Commute Crush (BCC) sitting at the back of a passing LRT Taft-Baclaran bus, which would be MY ride home. The BCC is a tall chinito guy with little facial hair and a shaved head, kind of like one of the guys in "The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift" except I haven't seen that movie and I just thought he'd fit in the cast because he looks Japanese. This BCC boards the same jeep that I do every morning so we have been together at some point for about three times on separate occasions. Once I saw him come out of the nearby Mini Stop eating ice cream from a cone. Then last night I saw him at the bus, he was up there at the farthest seat in the back and I was down there in the pavement. He saw me first. I think we're soulmates.

My cat got involved in a self-inflicted accident less than 24 hours since his arrival at my house. Thanks, Mom.

How do I put this delicately...I am disjointed, just like this blog post.

Someone asked me today why I am single. Rather than telling him I'm a complicated guy that scares most guys than attract them, I told him I am single because I don't meet guys and that I make no effort to meet guys. True story. When I had the free time I didn't meet any potential dates; how would I meet some now that I am absorbed in work five days a week, and when my weekends are mostly spent with friends going out on heterosexual places doing heterosexual things? I had better luck meeting guys when I'm walking alone in Salcedo Village or in Glorietta, seriously. There have been a few times when my friends would set me up on dates. These few times went nowhere; one of them even died. (Rest in peace, Gene.) Still I feel a slight tinge of excitement when friends set me up on dates because

a) friends are supposed to know your taste in men
b) friends would know these men they set you up with, therefore a backgrounder is possible to attain
c) I can't set a date myself, so somebody has to do it for me

(Okay, the guy I am watching on cam just reclined and now I can see him fondling his schlong under his white brief. Just saying.)

I have probably exhausted the powers of the internet when it comes to meeting men. Or maybe, it has exhausted me. Bottomline is, sure there are nice guys out there logging onto the newest gay personals site. But I am done going through all that. It gets tiring after a long while.

(Okay, he just laid back again, for like one second, and then went back up. Maybe to type something to his co-webcam exhibitionist?)

Another random shit that I want to whine about: why is it that when you find a nice guy, chances are he's

a) your friend
b) your future friend
c) your friend's friend
d) a douchebag, really

Sometimes, I want to ask my friends to help me find guys like them so I could get back on the dating scene. Hell, sometimes I want to ask my friends out. But isn't that awkward? Knowing this person for years and then suddenly seeing him in a different light? (Maybe red light for more beerhouse action?)

(Did I mention that this guy is naked except for the white underwear and a string necklace with a fang dangling from it? Or maybe it's a small seashell. Either way it's so tacky of him.)

Truthfully, the only reason I want to get back into the dating scene is to save what is left of my optimism after losing interest in meeting anyone for the possibility of a romantic relationship. I used to have high hopes of getting that happily-ever-after ending, and I still do, and my awareness of possibly finding that elusive lover anywhere is still intact. There is just that scary thought of being completely jaded. I don't want that.

(Next time, when somebody asks me why I am single, I'd say I'm too busy watching exhibitionists rub their crotches online.)

..........

EDIT: I just reread this entry and felt stupid, haha. Why do I still talk about these things?!

Brilliant!

My mother is constantly finding new ways to drive me insane. It's been years since she converted to the dark side of the Catholic bloc, i.e. the Protestants. (No offense to the Protestants, I have many close friends who have joined your ever growing force and I almost got sucked in back in college.) This comes as no problem, which is pretty weird because I come from a clan that sanctified religion religiously. My deceased grandmother used to walk on her knees in Baclaran. My aunt is the superstar evangelist of the local parish. My mother, having worked overseas for a very long time, one day came, years ago, with no belief in the Virgin Mary, rosaries, saints and the Sign of the Cross.

Given how forceful my tenacious grandmother could get, even as a young child I expected a world war that invoked all of heaven's angelic armies. But no. Nothing happened. They accepted my mom and her newfound belief like it was tikoy on Chinese New Year.

On the other hand, I am no flaming cross-dresser (given their idea that all cross-dressers end up with a curling iron), I have proven my intellect and potential but the kin still have trouble grasping my sexual orientation. But this is so not my story.

My mother came back to retire a couple months ago. After living with my grandmother for years, feuding endlessly with my brother for even more years, and being my own source of valuable and practical lessons in life, suddenly a parental figure is living with me in the house, or at least until I decide to move out. Suddenly, someone is asking me why I'm coming home late. Suddenly, someone is asking for my share of the bills. Suddenly, someone is innocently dropping pamphlets of "Accepting Homosexuality in the Family" in the coffee table. But this is not the problem, and this is so not the story.

I remember a debate I was in earlier this March. It was something about Philippine televangelism: loud, obnoxious men and women on local television endlessly defaming other sects and force-feeding you their interpretations of the Bible. My side argued that televangelism has helped the promulgation and development of the Catholic Church, and then some more debate bullshit. We won this round but of course I didn't believe a word I said in this debate.

You see, I'm the kind of person that respects another person's beliefs. You want to worship a tree? Sure. You think Satan is your best friend? Great. Oh, you don't believe in God? That's cool, just don't be a dick and tell me my God doesn't exist.

My mother, the Born-Again Christian, will wake up and tune the television to one of those fucking televangelists and go about the house doing her thing. This is after I wake up a few minutes earlier, tune the TV to Channel V and hope that Kelly Clarkson's latest video comes on. This, being the only time I ever use that stupid TV after I started working 10-hour days and come home late only to sleep. And when the TV isn't on any one of those moronic channels, it's on Channel 2 with her primetime telebida stars.

Then, at night, she'd turn the portable radio to AM frequency and tune to radio evangelicals who say exactly the same thing that their TV counterparts do. Being a disciple of mass communication, I certainly have no problems whatsoever with strange people using media to express their ideas. However when these same ideas get dragged and stretched over and over, when these same people say the same preachings and same opinions repetitively all day, everyday, any damn day, we're gonna have a problem. And when you live with a person that supports that kind of activity...

I have no problems with my mother's belief but for the love of God, give me a fucking break.

Look at Betty. :(

..........

In other news, I met a boy. :)

So what does a boytropolis make of a good beach weekend?


The Amazing Boytropolis and his Amazing Boytropolis Pose
( Not much. Except maybe running into a bunch of nudists (NSFW) )

Is this gonna be a trend now? First it was Britney Spears in her song "Piece Of Me":

Then after finishing my download of Ciara's new album Fantasy Ride (oh it's so good I'm playing the whole of it in my next party), the song "Tell Me What Your Name Is" has this:

Seriously, songwriters, what's up with this thankless promotion? And why try to make this wretched country seem like the south of France? Yes, that's right, foreigners should get the idea that the Philippines is a haven for the celebrities of the world so they could "sneak away" here "first class" only to be greeted by what, Manila traffic? Freaky weather? A government that tries to dumb down its people?

Don't get me wrong, I am not being cynical and I love that this wretched, wretched country is being recognized. I'm only saying that maybe we should start constructing an international airport in Palawan or Boracay so Britney and Ciara won't have to land in NAIA.

You know that feeling after finishing a book, that feeling of contentment? Maybe it stems from the idea that you have absorbed it all, or from the smug validation that all that knowledge is now firmly planted in your brain, or maybe just a sense of accomplishment. Whatever. I just know that it feels like a chapter just ended, for good. And I am happy, no shit attached.

What's been bothering me lately is, I am almost 24 years old and I have never been in a serious relationship. Now what does that say about me?
I once promised myself that I will never be taken for granted ever again. Now I vow not to gamble my own peace of mind when other people try to get off by stealing my sunshine. I'll still be nice to people and will always be Mr. Brightside but this time there will be no more tolerance to abuse. Defensive attacks become offensive attacks now. When war is waged, a battle must be fought--that's the plan.

Kaya ko kayang mag-beach weekend nang mag-isa?

The Proust Questionnaire has its origins in a parlor game popularized (though not devised) by Marcel Proust, the French essayist and novelist, who believed that, in answering these questions, an individual reveals his or her true nature. Here is the basic Proust Questionnaire.

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Waking up to a beautiful view of the sea, breathing only fresh air and never having to worry about where to find food to eat, clothes to wear and comfortable places to stay. It would be nice if all this happened with the most significant people in my life.

( Read more... )

Last week I had this dream where I saved a girl from a gang of rapists. I almost got stabbed with a steak knife and beaten by a hammer but somehow managed to elude it all; it even ended with me beating the shit out of them. The weirdest part is it all happened at the center of the mall, where everybody just saw it happened with nary a care. As in they just literally watched it all happen.

I think my subconscious mind is telling me about the apathy of people, something I seem to always think about lately. I also think that the lesson here is: just because everyone is watching doesn't mean I have to follow suit. I have the power to instigate. I can act on my own. I can start changes on my own.

Also in the dream, the rapists eventually got back on their feet and started running after me. I hid behind a stall of bananas in the wet market and successfully escaped them, until my dream again transitions into another bad dream, which I will not write because it's too personal. (Two bad dreams in one morning. You can just imagine the breathing exercises that I had to go through when I woke up.)

The lesson here now is: when trouble comes running after you, it's okay to hide behind a stack of bananas while you hope for the best.

I'm back, bitches. I'M BACK!!!

I took a peek at Facebook, then Livejournal. I'm logging off now. I'm so sorry, God. I'm so sorry, me.

For what it's worth, I still promise to do something productive before Holy Week ends.