10 ways to keep your marriage (and your husband) alive.

Me and the hubby.

Meet my husband Mike. We’ve been married for 10 years. And we’ve been friends for around 15. 131,400 hours is a lot of time to think about a lot of things and process a lot of feelings in a marriage. Love, anger, patience, frustration, boredom, euphoria, life and the number of ways to kill a person. I’m 88.2% joking, by the way.

I’m not going to lie about it. Marriage isn’t what I pictured it out to be. Giant bouquets of long stemmed tulips. Belgian chocolates in fancy boxes with red ribbons. Regular out of town trips to places like Switzerland or Africa. I mean, what can I say, I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to treat her like a sugar baby.

When we were little girls we were told about the grandiosity and the magical things about falling in love.  Nobody really ever told us that staying in love is a choice that we have to make every single hour of every single day.

To choose love, over anger. Because he keeps forgetting to clean the bathroom and throw out the trash.

To choose patience , over frustration. Because he always, always chooses to encode in MSWord instead of an Excel file.

To choose to talk (nicely), when you really want to get annulled and want to ship him back to his parents.

Falling in love is easy. Staying in love is another thing. Getting married is easy. Staying married is a challenge.

Here are my top 10 relationship essentials to save your sanity, save your spouse, survive your marriage and choosing love above all else.

The love listicle.
  1. Space is sacred – While marriage may all be about choosing to be together, personal space is essential. Space A is literal space: your own corner in the house or your own space for your clothes or your own desk. Space B is figurative space: your me time, your personal downtime, your time away from the spouse. Create your own personal bubble.
  2. Food is always the answer – Also wine. Wine is the answer. When you feel the need to reconnect, go on a date night. Steak and wine dinner dates. Or McDo Cheeseburger and orange juice drive thru. Share and enjoy a meal together. Or a bottle of wine. Just the two of you. Just like before.
  3. Do household chores together – Share bathroom chores, split dishwashing duty, love the laundry. It’s all about equitable contribution.
  4. Support systems are key to sanity and success – Point A: It takes a village to raise children. Point B: Spend time with people who don’t need anything from you and who remind you of who you really are without all your many hats. Support systems are also known as family and friends and friends who you call family.
  5. Keep your money but share what you have – What’s Mike’s is 80% mine and what’s mine is mine. Haha. No seriously, bring what you can to the table but also save some for yourself. Save for a rainy day, or a fancy massage or that nice pair of shoes. Enjoy the fruits of your own labor. You deserve it.
  6. Compromise  – Marriage is all about the mutual acceptance of whatever, whenever. Agree to disagree. Give and take. Find the middle ground. Strike a balance. Compromise all the way.
  7. Feed the fantasies – I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to treat her like a sugar baby. Also, be Maria Ozawa (lights off, post partum version) or whatever tickles your fancy, sir, yes, sir.
  8. Talk then act. Say then show. Promise then prove. Now say it all again.
  9. Go to sleep – There’s a saying that goes don’t go to sleep angry. I beg to disagree. Sleep is important. The less sleep you have, the more likely you are to make a poor decision. So for the love of your spouse, go to sleep and talk about it the next day.
  10. EXTRA GRACE REQUIRED – Always extra grace. A little more extra grace. Add a bit more extra grace. Extra patience, extra understanding, extra respect, extra affection, extra trust, extra gratitude, extra romance. Extra grace required always.

It’s the little things that become the big things. When he opens the car door for you. When he lets you sit in the car while he puts the groceries in the trunk. When he orders extra rice even if  you say you don’t want extra rice. When he exchanges his grilled porkchop for your baked salmon because you said it tastes it better. When he silently suffers listening to your eclectic playlist of Boyzone, Nine Inch nails and meditation to the sounds of nature. When he sleeps with one pillow so you can sleep with four. When he turns on the car a full 15 minutes before you get in so you won’t complain about the heat. When he fixes your morning coffee because he knows you have a series of meetings. When he offers to put Salonpas on your back because he knows you had a long day. When he sits through the 36th re-run of John Wick because he knows it’s your favourite movie.

We forget the good things that we have going on for us because we think some higher form of happiness can be found somewhere else. When in reality, happiness is in the little things because the little things become the big things.

So here’s to my first husband Mike and the millions of husbands, spouses, partners out there. Cheers to you for staying alive and cheers to us for choosing to stay in love.

Paradise. And Beyond.

“Welcome to luxury.” … the resort brochure states.

Yes. You have reached paradise. Let your vacation begin.

You sit on your private seaside terrace with spectacular views of greenery and landscaped blooms, meters away from the rising tide and then you start to think…

Don’t you sometimes wonder how you could possibly miss the opportunities to enjoy the simple pleasures of life? Like how the sun spectacularly sets amidst rippling cool seawaters. Or how the air smells refreshingly  pure with just a hint of ocean mist and cow dung. Or how the chirping of crickets lull you to a peaceful slumber and quasi catatonic stage. Or how the presence of your family and friends give you a warm and comfortable fuzzy feeling. This is the life. And this is how life should be. Peaceful. Content. Serene. Sober. And grateful.

With a seemingly endless selection of cable TV channels, an extraordinarily comfortable bed with 900 thread count bed sheets. The fluffiest sort of pillows that just swallow up your big city-person head. The luxurious feel of a semi-public peek-a-boo bathtub  filled with the tantalizing floral aromas out of a resort-branded bottle of bubble bath soap. Grime-free transparent shower panels manufactured to not leave anything for personal privacy. And of course, those little take-me-home hotel bottles of shampoo and bodywash for your ever growing collection of ultimate vacation memorabilia.

Yep. This is how life should be. Comfortable. Luxurious. Everyday should be a vacation.

Great concierge service means being driven to your room in a sparkly white service golf cart with a butler to carry your Speedo bags, your laptop case and the pretentious sports bag containing your smuggled goods of canned beer and assorted junkfood and the plastic of container of corned-tuna-that-you-must-have-for-breakfast-but-really-you-just-don’t-wanna-pay-for-the-1,200-pesos-per-person-for-breakfast-rate. What a nice butler you have turning a blind eye to your poor smuggling talents.

Amazing welcome services mean when they bring you your complimentary welcome drinks, they ask you if you’d prefer wine because you look like a stress-driven hag. Ah. Sympathy for alcoholic anonymous members.

Prompt delivery means when you want ice, they hand deliver it to your villa and ten minutes later because you think the ice has taken imperfect shapes and is not your desired frozen texture, they deliver another bucket pronto. Maybe if you demand an ice carving of Shaquille O’Neal, they just might give that.

Technical assistance means sending their IT person because you can’t connect to the wifi and the kind sir fixes your computer bugs as extra service. Hello free internet. Hello email. Hello Facebook. Wootwoot.

Outstanding Bar services here. You could lose your non-alcoholic resolutions at this place. An order of double shot bailey’s comes with mixed nuts with an aesthetic value worthy of Masterchef of the Universe positive criticism and if you bat your lashes the kindest bartender will give you seven extra red super plum cherries.

Superb Facilities and amenities include a 4 feet infinity pool, 3.5  feet plunge pools and numerous fountains, which spout perfectly synchronized jets of crystal clear chlorinated waters, boasting hues of royal blue which sparkle against the midday sun and becomes intensely translucent when the sun sets and darkness falls. Swimming is great physical exercise for vertebrates especially if your vertebrae falls under the scoliotic slash osteoporosis-bound category. And if you swim one lap in this pool and fail, you most definitely are on the verge of lung collapse from all the torrid smoking of your adolescence. But… BUT… don’t you worry. Beneath the contemporary and industrial designs of these hydro magnificence runs the glorious fountain of youth. Carry on. Swim forth and reproduce.

Yep. This is how life should be.

Butlers. Golf carts to ride to your room. Perfect ice. Fastest wifi ever. Beer. Baileys. Smuggling isn’t considered a crime punishable by law. Breathtaking views of the ocean when you wake up and when you sleep. Super sanitized bathrooms. Unlimited stationery. Free pens. Your own private pool. All with seven cherries on top.

But life isn’t like this.

When the vacation ends and we go home to our non-airconditioned humble abodes, the fantasy ends.

Buy one take one bedsheets from a popular local department store. Stiff neck pillows. Kabo-and-balde and a dysfunctional shower head which leaves you the impression of having someone spit on you. A refrigerator full of take-out fast food and remainders of yesterday’s lunch. An open bottle of local rhum. Freezers which take forever to produce one tray of miniature ice cubes. Disgustingly disappointing internet service provider. And ho-hum views of your next door neighbours firewall. No cherries. No pool.

But it’s your life. And you chose to live that life. And it’s your house. Moreover, it’s your home.

That tiny little piece of real estate and that old school roofing with flawed architectural home structure is the only place you could call home. With the endearing boisterousness that comes with the presence of your loved ones and the redundant yipping of your beloved canine. Yes. That is home. And you realize that no other place could ever be like this; even the most idyllic spot in the entire galaxy could never be at par with the simple excellence of your warm, lovingly built home.

You don’t actually miss the opportunities to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. You just miss the opportunities to be thankful for all the little things you take for granted everyday. Like watching obstructed views of the sunset from your shabby chic garage. Or listen to the polluted but familiar air rustling the leaves of the mango trees outside your window. Or enjoying the innocent laughter of random genetically unrelated children smashing your figurine collection. Or how the presence of your loved ones make you feel that nothing else in the whole entire world matters but them.

Your vacation has ended and your departure from paradise catapults you back to reality.

Some will say ‘we’ll always have paris’. But you – – – YOU will always have those hotel bottles of citrus scent shampoo and body wash proudly displayed on the bathroom cabinet. To remember the fun times. And to remind you that you could always bring a little piece of paradise, relive a little bit of the fantasy , and share a little bit of luxury to wherever home may be. J

Girl Meets Boys.

Potential Boyfriend Number 001.

Boy: Hi! Would you like to go to the movies with me?

Girl: What are we gonna watch?

Boy: (sings) Bad boys, Bad boys… watchu gonna do? Watchu gonna do when they come for you?

Girl: seriously?

Boy: seriously.

Girl: Ok.

Boy: The ticket’s worth a hundred and twenty bucks.

Girl: So?

Boy: i can’t buy your ticket if you don’t give me money. I would’ve bought it but i just had my car door fixed sooo…

Girl: ok shut up. Here. (hands boy money)

Give up when potential boyfriend 001 considers you to be potential girlfriend number 003 and potential mistress-not-wife number 005. Tsktsk.

Lesson learned: never go on a movie date without extra cash. Loads of extra cash. For popcorn. So you can stuff your face and will have reason to never talk to him.

Potential Boyfriend Number 002.

Boy: (flashes killer smile)

Girl: (blushes)

Boy: i’d like to take you out sometime… maybe in July?

Girl: huh? It’s april. Why wait til July?!?

Boy: my girlfriend leaves for the states second week of July.

Potential boyfriend number 002 is a polygamous athletic stud who makes  you laugh and sends delicious shivers down your spine. He never left his girlfriend, FYI.

Lesson learned: Thou shall not steal thy neighbor’s boyfriend even if she didn’t know about it.

Potential Boyfriend Number 003.

Married man.

With two kids.

Enough said.

Lesson learned: Behind every married man is a jealous bitch of a wife. And wives always win. Wives with children always always win. So walk away after three months worth of shopping sprees and fancy dates because it all goes downhill from there.

Potential Boyfriend Number 002.2.

Boy: (flashes killer smile)

Girl: (blushes)

Boy: i’ll call you at 1:00 am.

Lesson learned: Never ever entertain calls after midnight. Never ever accept invitations to date after midnight. It just bluntly means he wants to fuck around with you. And fuck around with you he will. And after fucking around with you, he just leaves your mind, heart, body and soul all fucked up. So fuck him. But leave it at that.

Potential Boyfriend Number 004.

Boy: You wanna have coffee?

Girl: Sure.

(4pm coffee. Great coffee. Great conversations. Great company.)

No sparks.

Lesson learned: Date around. Plenty of fish in the sea.

Potential Boyfriend Number 005.

Boy: You wanna go clubbing?

Girl: Why not?

Boy: You want a jagermeister? Flaming Ferrari? Triple shot of tequila?

Girl: Why not?

Boy: You wanna party?

Girl: Why not?

(4am. Lights. Sounds. Sensation. Flying high as a bird. Girl tripping. Boy missing. Now how to go home?)

Lesson learned: When life hands you lemons,  always count on someone else to bring in the tequila. And the vodka. And the mojito. And the rhum. And the beer. And the party pills. And the follow up party pills. But after you’ve barfed out all the seemingly good stuff, these boys are just too fucking hung over to take you out to lunch or watch a movie or meet your family or go to church with you. Good time boys are just there for the good times.

Potential Boyfriend Number 006.

Boy: Are you free for dinner?

Girl: When?

Boy: How’s about Friday?

Girl: Sure.

Boy: Great. I cant wait.

(8pm Japanese dinner. Nice. 10 pm. After dinner drinks. Nice. 1 am. You barfing. Him holding your hair while you barf. Nice.)

Lesson learned: Date around. Plenty of fish in the sea. But still hope for that one glorious bull of a man to come walking into your life.

Potential Boyfriend Number 007.

Girl: would you like to go on a date with me?

Boy: What? Are you asking me out?

Girl: if you answer yes, then Im asking you out. If you say no, then consider it a hypothetical question.

Boy: (laughs) ok. But please. Let ME pay for dinner.

(7pm dinner. Picks you up. Opens car door. Pays for dinner. Makes you laugh. Mutual interests in love, life, food and drinks and primetime TV soap opera.)

Lesson learned: Guys make great friends. Guys make amazing BFF’s. They also have a higher potential of being borderline effeminate. Be open-minded. Support the sexual revolution.

Potential Boyfriend Number 008 a.k.a. Potential Girlfriend number 001.

Girl: (looks at girl) (maybe the grass is greener on the other side.)

Other Girl: (smiles. And flirts with you.)

Lesson learned: Try something new. You never know. Viva la vulva.

Potential Boyfriend Number 009.

Boy is a call center agent.

Good looks.

Interesting personality.

Has passion and ambition.

And has nice clean fingernails.

Speaks with irritatingly compelled American accent.

Lesson learned: No one is perfect. Learn to accept and love the imperfections. If you can’t get over it, then walk the fuck away than live a life of supposed colonial misery.

Potentail Boyfriend Number 010.

Sings. Plays guitar. Has tattoos. 4-pack abs. Nice butt.

Loves music. Likes you.

Lesson learned: This rockstar’s girlfriends always stay backstage. Stage right. Stage Left. Backstage. Never centerstage. Applicable to real life. And groupies will drive you crazy. Especially flab-free groupies with 23-inch waistlines and insatiable lust for rockstar body parts.

Potential Boyfriend Number whatever.

Have faith. And God answers.

The best person to have a relationship with is yourself.

Eat alone. Ride a jeepney to nowhere. Max out your credit card. Buy a vibrator. Go on a solo vacation. Read a book. Use the vibrator.

And when you learn to love yourself, others will come to love you for you.

By the way, Potential Boyfriend Number 006 became Husband Number One.


As she fights the rising bile in her throat, she takes a deep breath and controls the urge to call up her friendly neighborhood psychiatrist. She tastes a tiny bit of vomit in her mouth and reaches for her pack of cigarettes, hoping to puff away the seemingly psychotic delusions in her cluttered little mind and praying to some divine being that the nicotine she inhales would have some prophylactic effect on her self-diagnosed mental and emotional dilemmas. She would very much rather entertain thoughts of diabolical intercessions and inexplicable neurosis and could visibly picture herself strapped in a straight-jacket and locked up in a padded room than acknowledge this peculiar feeling of … of adoration, affection, passion and any other permutation of the aforementioned emotions for another human being.

Because as she wakes up in the morning, her first thought of the day is YOU. You who makes her heart beat faster and slower at the same time. You who somehow and in some bizarre way makes her feel whole and complete. You who randomly pops into her inexperienced anarchic head during the day… YOU… yes, you…

You who makes her think that she has a heart after all… that it beats for a reason. You who makes her happier than usual… and makes her want to devote her time, her effort, her whole self to making you feel the same. You who makes her believe that there is some unwritten and unspoken prophecy that this is not just another chance encounter… that by some stroke of luck or holy providence you brighten her otherwise melancholic existence.

With every single day that passes, she thanks every single saint, angel, cherub and other supernatural ethereal deities for making your paths cross.


SHE LIKES YOU. For the person that you are and not for the person you want to mold yourself to be. she doesn’t just like you because of your eyes or your smile or the rippling biceps that have magically developed under precise training programs. she likes the way you look at her and tell her she’s pretty even when she knows she looks like an eloctrocuted medusa with inundated sweat glands, bad hair and volcanic zits. she likes the way you smile at her from across the room or tell her she looks hot even when she’s just wearing her ratty old jeans and a shirt. she likes it when after a long day, you put your arms around her and tell her you miss her.


clothes or cars or money or muscles do not define masculinity. it’s when you open the car door for her, or hold her hand when you walk, or rub her tummy when it aches or when you talk to her about your day and when you listen (or at least pretend to be minutely interested) to her talk about how she chipped a nail, or how she did her laundry or the kinda retarded dreams she had last night…stuff that may seem insignificant compared to the problems of pollution and poverty… but really, she just wants to share her life with you… even to the tiniest detail… to her, a guy doesn’t need guns, or knives, or six-pack abs to be called a real man… a real man makes a woman feel wanted, needed or maybe even loved…


you don’t know it but when you do all of these, she smiles inwardly and thanks her lucky stars because while most girls dream of finding their knight-in-shining armor, she has met her guy-in-branded-sneakers. and she likes the fact that you’re insanely nice because most of the guys in her past are barbaric, retarded, pompous, self-absorbed war freaks who think that mother earth and all living entities should revolve around them. And jerks of such nature are likely to think that she is just another female with an accessible cervix… but she’d like to think that that you don’t see her as such… that you like her for who she really is and not for what she can do to satisfy any penile appetite. She adores the way you talk, and the way you scratch your head when you’re confused, and she laughs at your jokes even when she doesn’t get the punchline. and nowadays, you are the reason behind the smile that she puts on her face… just so you know. 🙂


She likes you enough because apparently, SHE CARES FOR YOU. Even when you get the tiniest scratch or the smallest of sniffles, she starts to wish for superhuman powers to make you feel better and usurp your pain. For every time you get home late or forget to eat a meal, a fine line of wrinkle develops on her twenty-something face. Or when you have a bad day at work or when you just don’t feel well, she wants to fly or teleport herself to wherever you are and give you a huge fat hug and hope to make your boo-boo’s go away. As a childless female, she has the current inclination to divert her maternal instincts towards the people she cares about. And these days, her focus is on you.


SHE WANTS YOU. She wants you like she has never wanted anyone else. she wants you… just you… and she wants you to understand that you don’t have to prove anything because she likes just the way you are…


And just in case it isn’t obvious yet, in case you haven’t noticed — she is willing to take a backseat to everything and everyone else in your life because she understands that these things and those people make you who you are. but she wants you to realize, that at the end of the day, she is like every other girl… she just wants to feel, even in the lowest degree, that every thing she does is appreciated… and that YOU appreciate HER…


And as she exhales the last of the deathly fumes of tobacco, she concludes that she has a few loose screws in her head. For the life of her, she cannot explain the concurrent emotions of confusion and affection. You have dragged her out of her scornful stupor and thrown her into the pits of chaotic bliss.


and she finally surrenders… it is possible. because you make it possible… she is happy. and she is happy because of you. 🙂

with or without him.

“… when i stopped being me… i found myseLf…”

mythological stories say that at the beginning of creation, man and woman were but one being. attached to one another as if two creatures were attached back to back – – – two heads, four arms and four legs. but the Greek gods became jealous of these mortals and so Zeus, the supreme lord of Olympus, struck the creature with a lightning bolt, thus creating man and woman. Since then, men and women had to search for their lost half...

question now is, how can we be sure that our other half is out there somewhere? what if we were born to be by ourselves? what if we wait for someone to find us but they never come? what if we search for someone but they don’t want to be found?

i must be sick in the head. i must have some sort of undiagnosed cerebral anomaly because just when my life becomes unusually normal, every neuron in my head overanalyzes the simplest situations and distorts what is basically ordinary. but then again, i am not used to the ordinary because i am not ordinary. i am special. i am a retard who should be put away for pre-meditated emotional suicide.

i quit me. i quit being the contemptuous smart-ass bitch who wallowed in pain and self-pity. i quit being the drama queen who exacerbated everything with a lot of sex, drugs and rock and roll. harhar. but seriously. i have changed. i am not me anymore.

i am not me anymore because now i have him. i stopped being me and i found myself… i found myself because of him.

or so i want to believe. is he the one that i’ve been waiting for? is he the one who holds the key to my frigid heart? or is he the one who will make me realize that i am meant to be alone afterall?

what if i’m happy with myself but lose him in the end?

“… i am happy…”

issue now is: define happiness. how do we know we’re really happy and we’re not just trying to convince ourselves that this is what happiness feels like? what price do we have to pay for being happy?

i am jaded. i have been wronged. i have been hurt. and i have been hurting for far too long that i pain has become a part of me.

i want to quit him. for some sick, inexplicable reason i want to let him go and i want him to let go of me. not because he has nothing great to offer but simply because he’s far too perfect for someone like me. he’s adorably cute, smells so good that you can actually orgasm just by the scent of him (i’m kidding), he has clean, genetically well-shaped fingernails, killer eyes that make my knees go seriously weak in any given moment, he makes me laugh like a half-brained hyena and most of all, he treats me the way i should be treated. you ask, so what’s wrong with that? but my question is: what’s the catch?

what if i find happiness with him and he walks away?

i still think too much. to hell with me and my god-forsaken musings.

i can’t do crap about anything except curse the greek gods. fuck you zeus and your stupid lightning bolts.

Soul – searching.

they say that ten shooting stars can be seen within one hour. and as i sat beneath the surprisingly starry skies one depressingly perfect evening, i patiently wait. i have been wishing on falling stars long before i could construct a coherent sentence. and long before i took into heart the virtue of patience and the essence of waiting. for one hour i stare at the sky… in its vastness, i saw only one. one frikkin’ shooting star. i risk getting cross-eyed for sixty minutes and all for one frikkin star?! if there is a god, he is showing me no mercy.

astronomy is an exact science,yeah? i was ready with ten wishes for the ten stars that are supposed to fall in one hour. don’t tell me i have wasted one perfectly good hour of my busy existence just to be able to make one wish. it’s a conspiracy. just when i have made time to wish on falling stars, the stars decide not to fall. just my luck.

soul-searching. my primary objective as of the moment. after all the bullcrap i’ve gotten myself into the past couple of years, after all the horrific decisions i’ve made, after all the wrong people i have gotten involved with… i have reached exhaustion… this is the point of no return.

elusive happiness. the one thing i could never have. bitterness, sarcasm, cynicism and all other gothic homicidal adjectives have successfully embedded themselves like thick crusty barnacles unto my persona. i was made to be dark and twisty. like a vampire’s coffin from the 1500’s. not bright and shiny. like the million dollar diamond studded brassiere from victoria’s secret.

reciprocity. a chance of sharing my life with someone. a shot at happiness. at the end of the day, to have someone to go home to and talk to and cuddle with and hold me in his arms and make me think that everything i do has meaning. and that my life actually has a purpose. to have someone treat me the way i should be treated… like a princess… like a goddess… someone who actually thinks i’m perfect just the way i am… and to have someone miss me more than i actually miss him… someone who makes the usually stubborn, retarded and pessimistic me turn into a quivering mass of happy jelly with one statement like: “you’re more than enough.” and i thought words were only words… but he makes me think otherwise.

ambiguity. there are no gray areas in my world. everything is in black and white. all questions have to be answered and all doubts have to be erased. me and no one else. stay or go. all investigative queries: the how, why, when, where, what and with who have to be satisfactorily answered. why? because ambiguity leads to questions. and unanswered questions lead to doubt. and doubt means questioning trust. and freakin’ commitment phobics like myself have plenty of trust issues. there is no room for ambiguity in my world.

why am i writing this? is this a pathetic attempt to try and reconstruct some sort of normalcy in my life? why am i doing this? but most of all, what am i doing with him?

i should stop asking questions. i should stop thinking too much. i should just stop. and accept the fact that i could… be happy.

maybe i don’t need to soul-search. maybe i don’t need to wish on ten shooting stars. maybe i should stop asking questions.

because the answer might be right in front me. because all i might need to wish on is just one shooting star. because maybe it’s not my soul that i’m searching for… because maybe, just maybe… all the while, it’s him that i’ve been looking for…

On Love. Or Lack Thereof.

my brain is an incomprehensible mixture of phlegm, lard, mud and stinky decaying earth materials. otherwise described as shit… the putrid excesses of animal gastronomic delights that one would run away from… now if it were only that is easy to get rid of my brain…and the fucked up thoughts,ideas and emotions that are inside it… one ginormous heave and you’d be rid of the unwanted fibers, flush it down the toilet and never see the same shit again for as long as you shall live.

i think too much. intellectualizing stuff can be greatly advantageous. but nowadays, it’s the reason why im falling apart. sigh. the things smart people do. so anyhow, back to the slushy mush that is called my brain. i am getting the almost untrollable urge to bang my stupid head on the marble kitchen counter, crack my thick skull open and lay my brain to rest on top of the ice cream container inside the freezer. i’ve been thinking too much.

you know the cliche adage that goes “mind over heart”? well.anatomically it is possible. i mean, statistically speaking, how many people do you see walking with their heads attached to their pelvic bones right? that’s just the way it should biologically be. the statement mind over heart is physically possible. insert intellectualization. insert the philosophy that everything is a state of mind. bah. huge frikkin’ bullcrap. i.am.no.ghandi.i.do.no.kabbalah.and the things that run in my brain are heavily cryptic that even the most brilliant erm, crypt-keeper (laugh laugh laugh) cryptologist could not decipher it.

so anyhow, the point of this entirely pointless intro, leads to only one thing: LOVE. l-o-v-e. defintion in the gift-to-deranged-literary-expressionists-such-as-moi dictionary — Love is a strong affection, a warm attachment, an attraction based on sexual desire (my,my. i beg to differ), an unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for others and a score of zero in tennis.

i heartily agree to all the definitions aforementioned (except for the last one because all i know of tennis is andre agassi, anna kournikova and lots of grunting during a match) because i’d like to add that when it comes to love, especially if you’re smart,pretty,jaded,cynical and mentally challenged like me, you get zero. oh boohoo. sniff sniff.

you don’t say someone is knocking on my brain. it sounds idiotic. you say someone is knocking on my heart. you say your heart flutters. my heart beats for you. i-heart-you. blah blah blah. your brain doesn’t flutter, beat or (insert desired adjective). your brain just sits there like a rock. all notions of romanticism are synonymous to the heart.

so what is the essence of this brainless composition? the essence of this brainless composition is my brain. and the battle between my brain and my heart. they’re two completely separate entities. sometimes i even think that, athena, the name of my smart,sexy,sultry alter ego, has taken residence in the neurotic garbage bin called my mind. but mary, my sweet, demure, sucker-for-romance personality has lovingly taken possession of my heart. my other multiple personalities have temporarily gone AWOL and went to the maldives for a vacation. i digress. point is, i’m tired.

i know that the heart and the brain can function in perfect symbiosis. (that athena and mary could become friends and hold hands and help each other do their homework and paint their toenails.) my brain searches for logic and reason behind everything while my heart tells me that love is irrationally felt.

my heart has given up. i don’t do love… anymore… cos i no longer have a heart. (and no i did not rip apart my ribcage and put it in the freezer with the porkchops) so now my brain is trying to rationalize every single circumstance in my pathetic sad existence. investigating the unknown, collecting evidence and trying to close this sick case of love or lack thereof. (why? what did i do? where did i go wrong? what can be done? why the fuck did you choose her.. and leave me behind? did i bury the whore-who-stole-the-man-i-gave-half-my-virginity-to’s body in the right place?)

for now einstein feebly triumphs because my heart has surrendered. but Cupid is whispering in my ear… the mind may have won the battle… but the heart may win the war…

I Don’t Do Love.

i don’t do love.

and here you come knocking on my heart like some insipid bastard who wishes to conquer the jaded world i so comfortably live in.

you think you can change me? you think you can turn my perfect little sordid world upside down? you think you can run through my titanium encased cynical little head? you think you can break through the massive cemented wall i’ve successfully built around my stupid heart?

i’ve seen it all. i’ve heard it all. and i’ve felt it all before. this is nothing new to me. you are but one of the idiotic dweebs who think they can mount the insurmountable.

YOU are messing with my mind, buddy.

i don’t like waiting for you to make up that playboy head of yours. i don’t like waiting for your sweet text messages or emails or calls or whatever bullcrap it is that you do because i know you’re leading me on. i.don’t.like.waiting.for.you.

you see, everytime i find myself falling for someone, i get the uncontrollable urge to raise my lovely little leg and kick myself in the head for being lured once again into a trap that i know of all too well. you fall for someone and you start seeing stars before your eyes. you look at mud and see tiny heart-shaped figures. you look at big old rats and think they’re pretty little siamese cats. you look at the trash in your stinky garbage bin and feel compelled to fold them neatly like your la perla lingerie. and then all these corny delusional scenarios form in your lovestruck mind: him giving you a dozen red roses, having candlelight dinner on a secluded beach, him whispering sweet nothings into your eager ear, him flying to the moon just because you said you wanted a moon rock, him and you laughing incessantly at your versace-inspired wedding, you and him playing with your adorable cabbage patch-worthy kids…

aaahhh… the sick little fantasies we conjure up when we thin we’re in love.

precisely why i don’t do love.

you can come knocking on my heart. see if i answer.

you think you can conquer me. you could try.

you want me to wait. stick around.

you want me to care. convince me.

you want me to love you. show me what love is.