There’s always something slightly melancholic when talking to an ex, no matter how well the conversation goes. And of course, being me, that wistfulness is quickly swatted away once verbal carnal sweetness comes into play.
Someone from my recent past has made his way back into (k, that’s enough links) my present.
Apparently, the girlfriend isn’t performing her fleshly duties.
Two wrongs are only the beginning.
Yo, I’m still alive and fatter than ever. I’ve been on vacation (from work, not from life. Unfortunately) since the 6th and my days have been filled with fast food, home made food, DVDs, and the occasional drunken night. Would anyone believe me when I say that I’ve only been drunk a grand total of three times ever since I resigned from my previous job? Let’s not even start with how little sex I’ve been getting :blah:.
See, my whole world does not go on vacation with me. Friends still have to work, Chuchubells still needs to work. So I am left home alone every night with the two white boys and a plateful or bowlful or cardboardful of food and a bunch of DVDs. My body clock’s back to normal, my socialization is out of whack. The first time I left the house to actually go somewhere (not just the store or the grocery or a random Katipunan food establishment) was last Friday, to get copies of my birth certificate over at the NSO. I felt like such a grown up. I’m going back on Monday, and then I’m off to the SSS offices to apply for social security. YES, I KNOW I AM IRRESPONSIBLE.
So what’s been keeping me busy? Let’s all laugh our asses off at the sadness that is my I-am-temporarily-a-bum but-I’m-still-getting-paid! life.
:lmao: Workout videos. I’m obsessed; and I wasted money on three videos when all I really need is Carmen Electra’s Aerobic Striptease. It serves several purposes: to bring out the lesbians in us, to prepare us for Drew’s 30th birthday, and yes, to sort of lose weight. Head rolls and finger in mouth moves, word.
:lmao: DVDs. I watch an average of four movies a day, my lawd. There I am, lying on the air bed in our lounge the whole godforsaken day that Q (Hot French Housemate) attempted to bonk me on the head with a broom this morning: STOP WATCHING TV!
:lmao: DVD-shopping. Other day, Allah and I left for Daily at 10am to get ourselves some new DVDs. The DVD place opened two and half hours later. Two and a half hours hanging out at McDonald’s, Chowking (solving Sudoku at the crossword), and Diplomat bookstore. For DVDs.
:lmao: ENTOURAGE. Entou-fucking-rage. Seasons 1 to 3, what’s taking them so long for Season 4?! I’m addicted. I haven’t even bothered starting on Seasons 3 of House and Lost.
I love you, Ari!
And that’s really just it. Oh, I have a new bed. I’ve said good-bye to my single and got a double. Finally.
Here’s the part where I tell anyone who cares what the deal is between Chuchubells and I.
So seriously, I need help. Like every other unimaginative sort-of-relationshipped person out there, I seek your advice: WHAT DO I GET CHUCHUBELLS FOR CHRISTMAS?
Bitch is a Libran, with expensive taste. I’m thinking of getting him two gifts: one fun and/or kinky, one real and/or serious. I already know what to get him for fun: plain white boxers with my signature on it, because I’m a celebrity-wannabe like that.
For real/serious, up until twenty minutes ago, I already had a solid idea what to get him: a lava lamp. And then I remembered his collection of funky lights and lamps in his room, so I sent him a message asking if he already has one. HE DOES.
And now I’m back to square one.
HELP?
(We had our first fight last Friday night. He bit my ear, I cried. I kicked and punched him, my left thumb ended up with a dead nail. But that’s just foreplay for us, because we ended up doing it in the restaurant’s bathroom. Man, we were so drunk. Anyway, he started pissing me off, so I texted our boss who called me up and THAT’S what really pissed Chuchubells off. Long story short, we ended up doing it back in my room.)
It’s been a while. I was sick for one week and I’m all better now, thankyouverymuch. I’ve succumbed to being Boring, though, allowing my time to be consumed by work, sleep, getting drunk on rhum, and sex.
Last weekend, I sprained Chuchubells’s dick. It was funny. That’s what he gets for calling a ‘Sex Night’. But I weep at the aftermath: my bedsheets are still a crumpled mess, most of my clothes are still strewn all over my bedroom floor, and I have a three-week old bottle of apple C2 fermenting in my room. Yowza. Plus, my hamper is overflowing with laundry while my closet is slowly becoming devoid of clothes.
Oh! Oh! Oh! I got kicked out of my team (here at work) because I suck. November was a bad month for me, so I was put into Phoenix or PIP (Performance Improvement Program). And then my previous team’s supervisor switched from inbound sales to outbound, and guess who’s handling my previous team now? CHUCHUBELLS.
Had I not slacked off last month, this would be this month’s scenario:
Helga: I’m not going to work tonight.
CCB: Why?
Helga: I’m.. umm.. going.. uh.. drinking.
CCB: Drinking?! With who?! I’m not with you, no, you can’t be absent tonight!!!
So yeah, I officially like Chuchubells. I realized that when we were drinking with the Frenchies two Saturdays ago and Elton John’s Tiny Dancer was playing and he started singing along. And theeen, while dressing up to go out, I put on my knee-high fishnet whore stockings which freaked him out/pissed him off. He refused to get out of my bed/take my pillow off his head, and insisted that he’d rather go home or stay at my place than have me go out with prostitute legs :cute:.
People from work are starting to sense that something’s going on between us. It started with me wearing CCB’s jacket to work (a nondescript men’s company jacket) and then him being absent during my rest days and.. uh, our matching hickeys (how very grade school, I know). So much for keeping a low profile.
I’ve been in and out two hospitals this week alone. My diagnosis? AIDS and VD. Deadly combination. Folks, it’s terminal.
All right, so that isn’t funny at all. Truth be told, I have a bacterial blood infection, a bad case of UTI (which caused the blood infection and causes my on-and-off fever and chills), and lumbar strain. Now I’m stuck in the hills of Antipolo for the time being, under the not-so-watchful eyes of my parents (who insist on a rice bran and fruit diet), and DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DAYS OF WORK I’VE SKIPPED??? I’m bound to get, what, ten bucks on my next paycheck. No kidding.
And mehn, I’m all What-The-Fuck-ed Out. The first time I remember (cos mom says I used to come down with it all the time when I was a kid) getting UTI was at the nubile age of nineteen because I was banging this band’s drummer. Pissing razors, no fever, laid off the alcohol for a week, got better. The second time, my chud of an ex gave it to me. Again: pissing razors, no fever, could NOT lay off the alcohol so chugged down coconut juice and doubled my water intake, got better.
This third time? NO pissing razors. Fever. Chills. An actual, no, TWO actual trips to two different hospitals. IS IT BECAUSE I’M 21 AND NO LONGER ALLOWED TO BE YOUNG AND STUPID?
Rawr. Seriously, yesterday, I looked like some kid her mom literally dragged to the hospital. Board shorts, an old vintage tee (with little ipis holes!), flipflops, no make-up, and a messy ponytail. Ten minutes before leaving the house, I was curled up in bed going “Don’t wanna don’t wanna don’t wannaaaaaaaa! You can’t make meeeeee!” until mom got mad. LAWLZ.
Armed with my natural good looks and my good english skillz, I managed to face the bustling city looking like that. Over lunch, wearing that plastic patient bracelet and a cotton ball stuck to my inner elbow fold with hospital tape, I asked my mom: Wouldn’t it be awesome if I started coughing on people’s food?
Mom just laughed, yay, we’re friends again. We, like, totally bonded over Max’s chicken and kare-kare, and both agreed that my idiot of a cousin, Kiko, deserves death by horse-bukkake.
My meds set me back by a grand, and I feel guilty referring to the new boytoy as…well, ‘new boytoy’. So from now on, he is Chuchubells on here, okay?
Chuchubells was the one who convinced and brought me to the hospital four days ago. Ain’t that sweet. It don’t matter if he ain’t cute like D is, yo, he’s super nice, filthy rich, hooks me up with my needed social drugs, and drinks more than I do.
Copyright Helga Weber | May 2008 | Sitemap | Top
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Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. My first socio-political scandal will happen at the age of 35 and will include men, sushi, an African country, and lots of money. My lover is the greatest. More?
