Archive for November 2007

An Open Letter to Myself. From Myself.

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This entry is part 5 of 12 in the series Open Letters

Mr. Ade Magnaye,

It has come to my attention that in the seven months since you became single, your financial, emotional, sexual, and physical well-being has been in a state of constant decline. Yes, I know, you have the urge to tear this letter apart this very moment, and I don’t blame you. In fact, you have every reason to tear this letter apart and jump from the roof of your garage and land facefirst onto the pavement. Again. Hey, it’s your life and I don’t care if you want to waste it by being depressed like fuck and hiding under a blanket and the 20+ pillows you keep in your bedroom.

But hey, hear me out for once, okay? You fucking need some straightening out. Read the rest of this entry »

Ade’s Christmas Wish List 2007

I can’t believe that it’s almost December already. Soon enough, I’ll be braving the crowds (and possibly a knife between my ribs) to get gifts for my (alarmingly decreasing number of) friends and family (who apparently read my blog and are one step away from disowning me). The gifts, as always, will consist of these items:

  • Socks (in orange, lime green and baby blue)
  • Handkerchiefs
  • Belly button lint
  • Mongo sprouts (I grew them myself)
  • This

But even though I work very hard to give people the things that they want for Christmans, I rarely get things that I like for Christmas, since Santa Claus is an asshole and never gave me a single thing ever. So yeah, my Christmases past are EPIC FAIL:
 


Wrong.

 
To make sure that nobody makes the mistake of giving me a used life-sized David Hasselhoff doll again, I shall proceed in enumerating the things I want for Christmas. Take note, people. Read the rest of this entry »

Beowulf in 5 Minutes


 
 
 
BEOWULF IN 5 MINUTES
(SORRY)

 
 
 
INT. Heorot, ancient Denmark. Inside a great hall, where people are naked, getting drunk, having hot torrid sex, and acting like total douchebags. Yes, this is a children’s film. Enjoy.
 
 
 

KING HROTHGAR
My dear Danes! Let us all get drunk,
have orgies, get herpes, and pass out!
For I have promised you a great hall of lust,
and here it is! YAY!
 
 
 
QUEEN WEALTHEOW
Also, I’ll just sit here beside the king
watching you all act stupid.
You’ll all die later anyway. Lollerskates.
 
 
 
DRUNK DANES
We’re too piss drunk to hear what you’re saying.
Whatever.
Moar mead yayz!

 
 
 
SCENE: GRENDEL, a horribly disfigured creature, crashes into the hall.
 
 
 

GRENDEL
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!
 
 
 
DRUNK DANES
THE GRENDEL!
HELP! ZOMG WE’RE GONNA DIE!
 
 
 
KING HROTHGAR
Can’t speak. Drunk.
Passed out. Snore.
Read the rest of this entry »

On Palm Readers and Other Sorcery

A few weeks ago, at The Mordo and Sexy Nomad’s awesomiffic Halloween Party, I had my palm read by Cheska. It was all going kind of nice and well, until she got to the obligatory “your life will be a total mess courtesy of some divine intervention but this sort of intervention is probably done by Satan, because you’ll get fucked up REAAAAL bad it’s unbelievable” part. So the conversation went a little something like this:

Cheska:    Show me your palm so I can read– HOLYFUCKINGSHIT.

Me:    What?

Cheska:   OH LORD THIS IS HORRIBLE.

Me:   What? What do you see? WHAT DO YOU SEE, WOMAN?

Cheska:   I THINK I’M GONNA FAINT–

Me:   WILL I DIE IN A CAR CRASH? WILL I GET HORRIBLY DISFIGURED IN A FREAK ACCIDENT? WILL MY PENIS GET CUT OFF BY AN EVIL SCHEMING WIFE? WILL SHE SELL MY PENIS ON EBAY? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?!?!?!111one

Cheska:   I chipped a nail! And I just had a manicure! OH NOES!

Me:   Wait, what?

Cheska:   So, yeah. Horrible.

Me:   Whew. I thought you were seeing some dark horrible fate that will befall me–

Cheska:   Also, you’ll go nowhere in your current job. You’ll quit and look for greener pastures, but you just don’t have any skills whatsoever, marketable, practical or sexual. Your college classmates will get filthy rich, hobnobbing with stars such as Kristine Hermosa, Angel Locsin and Dominic Ochoa. And you’ll blow your life savings on your blog and you’ll end up sucking dicks along Quiapo just to pay for hosting fees. You’ll also live in a cardboard box for ten years, and spend seven of it without taking a bath. And also, your wife will dump you for some hot dreamy Russian guy named Vladimir who runs a vodka company. And I wouldn’t mind doing him myself. Also, your wife’s named “Amelhia Phamela” but her real name is “Juanitho Rhodolfo”. Well, at least that was her name before the sex change. By the way, you’ll die in your sleep–

Me:   Oh. At least… I get a good death.

Cheska:   –after an MMDA demolition guy wearing heavy-duty metal-toe boots accidentally steps on your head during a sidewalk clearing operation.

Me:   … Fuck.

So yeah, that was a very optimistic outlook for the rest of my life. Now, I don’t necessarily believe in fortune tellers and any other sort of sorcery like that (unlike this fairy midget), but then hearing things like that are, well, in a word, depressing. Well, imagine being told about these stupid turns your life will take. It’s not exactly the happiest thing to hear. It’s not the fortune teller’s fault, but still, they make you realize stuff. Read the rest of this entry »

Down The Highway: An Advice Column for Emos – 9

This entry is part 9 of 12 in the series Down The Highway

Dear DtH,

I’ve been on a more-than-usual misery trip, and this led to me being depressed (more than usual) for quite some time, for no apparent reason. Okay, I actually ran out of black eyeliner, but do you really need a reason for misery?

So yeah, I was feeling sulkier than usual. And since I’ve never tried the arcane art of making oneself bleed, I decided to have a go at it. I grabbed a really sharp knife from the kitchen, hid in my room, and in the midst of the music of Panic! At the Disco, I gave my flesh a nice, stinging jab from the sharp edge of the knife.

And it hurt.

I know most people would say that the pain outside only dulls the pain inside. No. It hurt like hell, DtH. It hurt like hell. I screamed, woke up my parents who were sleeping in the next room, and begged them to rush me to the hospital to give me a Tetanus shot. After hours of begging, I finally made them take me to the E.R., only to realize I have a fear of needles and I faint at the sight of them. No more self-inflicted injury for me, nosiree.

Now I have a five-millimeter long wound at my left arm and I gently change the Winnie-the-Pooh band-aid on it everyday. Religiously. And I cry when I change my bandages, because they hurt on the inside. Since I have proven to the world how much of a wimp I am, does that make me a true-blooded emo?

- ~eMoBoi~

Read the rest of this entry »