CONVERSATIONS AT 5AM.

February 22, 2008 at 6:24 am | Filed under mr wonderful, Y!M conversations

I’ve been operating on the oddest schedule ever, odder than when I used to work nights (not as a prostitute, no). There’s nothing consistent about my hours and though I find myself assaulted with headaches throughout the day due to lack of sleep, I’m totally okay with it. I’ve also managed to keep my ditz moments to a minimum (just one this week!: I accidentally got in the wrong ride to take me to school). The consequence of having lover in a different timezone.

I’ve been up chatting with lover since 1am. I could use a cigarette, a mug of strong coffee, a line of coke, and maybe a cheap hooker…wait, no. But guess what? None of these exist or are allowed at my folks’!

Anyway.

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MY HEART IS X-THOUSAND MILES AWAY. AND A SAP.

February 14, 2008 at 4:20 pm | Filed under joyful girl, mr wonderful, Y!M conversations

Next to my birthday, Valentine’s Day is my favorite unofficial holiday, and I never quite understood how some people can be so bitter or meh-ed out when it comes to this day. Really, people, if you’re looking for an unoffical holiday to hate, go hate that week that comes after Christmas. Ya know, that week when we’re all scrambling to drop the ten pounds we gained from stuffing our faces silly with, uh, Christmas cheese and rice garnished with rice, just so we could fit into our New Year’s Eve Outfit. An outfit we bought a week ago, when we were ten pounds lighter. Something like that. You get my point. Right? My point being: stay away from the cheese, or else you will be doomed to be single every time the 14th of February comes around.

I swear you will.

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ON ARMPITS, INTIMACY, AND PUBLIC BEHAVIOR.

January 8, 2008 at 6:22 pm | Filed under mr wonderful, the helga manual, Y!M conversations

Despite looking like your average run-of-the-mill wouldn’t-know-better good-for-nothing Filipina adult who you’d think, at first glance, most likely spends her time doing average run-of-the-mill wouldn’t-know-better good-for-nothing Filipina stuff— I actually don’t. Or I’m actually not. Or: I’m actually not and I actually don’t.

It’s been pointed out several times by lover that I am not normal (actually, not just not normal but far from normal) and that I should be taking steps towards normalcy. And I am working on that, and anyway, that’s not the point. The point is: at the risk of being laughed at or having your respect levels for me plummet to -19, I’d like to come clean and say that I. Have a thing. For armpits.

All along, I thought having an armpit fetish was an acceptable thing. Until today:

WEIRDING OUT SOMEONE WHO LIKES TALKING DIRTY TO HIS PENIS. :(
KILI-KILI = ARMPITS

This thing for armpits began some time ago when I saw a picture of Jerry Yan wearing a sleeveless top for a Pepsi endorsement. Instead of saying the usual “Patingin ng titi!” (trans: your penis, show me it), I got so…interested in his armpits and his armpit hair that I said “PATINGIN NG KILI-KILIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!” (trans: I could have sex with your ampits if you showed me it).

I never actively pursued my men’s armpits, though, and it wasn’t a non-negotiable when it came to whether or not this guy would make a qualified partner in bed. Truth be told, only two of my exes had armpits yummy enough that made me want to pitch a tent in them and live there forever. One of them was 6’3″ and the other used to fight— professionally. So to say, they had (uhhh) big and (uhhh) very accomodating armpits that doubled as a pillow because back then, all I had was a tiny single bed that could hardly fit two people.

(Dear Lover,

Love,
Helga)

Lover’s armpits are another story, though. They’re not big, they’re not very accomodating, and quite frankly, they’re a couple of snobs. But I have never EVER met a pair of sexier snobs in my life. It can be said that I’m nearing the state of being obsessed. Lover didn’t sleep over the other night and I woke up to a dream of him showing me his armpits. So imagine my disappointment when I opened my eyes, rolled to my side, and saw not a sexy hairy armpit waiting to be kissed or have my nose buried in it, but empty space. I almost cried.

Having an armpit fetish is a dangerous thing for someone who hardly has any sense of privacy or for someone who is lacking inhibitions, both of which can be said of me. It’s also mighty embarrassing for lover that I am or have all three. Several times it has happened that we’re in a public place and I automatically reach up his sleeve to tuck my hand into his armpit. It’s something I do out of habit and as sort of like a replacement for a kiss or a hug.

Of course, lover had to analyze the shit out of it and kill it for me by saying that showing affection for armpits in public is actually a gesture more intimate than a kiss; posing questions such as “would you greet your friend by touching their armpits?” and “would you kiss your friend’s armpits?”. The answers to both questions are an obvious no…although there was this one time that Aa was passed out and drunk in my bed and I had to move her and she wouldn’t budge, so I bit her armpit— that doesn’t count, though, because I did it out of necessity, not because I had the desire to.

I’m curious: is armpit-touching in public something you actually notice? I know that no one sane would consider it acceptable public behavior (same goes for loudly commenting on your partner’s ass— something that I, once again, am guilty of), but is it something that would grab your attention if you see strangers doing it?

Helga: I’m blogging about your armpits.
Lover: You’re kidding me.
Helga: Nope. Lol.
Lover: Aww baaaaayb, lol.
Helga: They’re so sexy kasi eh hmp.
Lover: Fine. I’ll blog about your singit.

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TUESDAY MORNING RAMBLING.

May 8, 2007 at 9:36 am | Filed under mr wonderful, technicolor lover, the helga manual, Y!M conversations

Mr Supervisor (rather, Mr Former Supervisor But Still A Supervisor) came up to me (of his own volition, not because I needed help) towards the end of my shift and described me as “volatile” and asked if I’ve been good. That means I flip and flop between irate and calm. Intermittently bitchy agent? More like irascible because someone’s being an idiot. Of course, volatile can also mean I’m explosive (which is a sexy way of putting it). On the other hand, it can mean I’m unstable (I think we already know that).

It’s generally not a good idea for me to have crushes on people who are physically within my reach and whom I come into contact with on a daily basis, if only because I’m a ding-a-ling who has the scandalous habit of acting upon my crushes. My theory is that it comes with my age and that when I eventually mature, I’ll (finally) develop a sense of inhibition. At least I’m crossing my fingers that I will. Maybe when I’m 22.

Which reminds me: why is there nothing monumental or defining about turning 22? It’s just like turning 8 or 14 and very much unlike turning, say, 1 (because it means I managed to not annoy my parents for 12 months, so they decided not to smother me in my sleep or to leave me in a basket outside some rich spinster’s doorstep who actually hates children and will probably do something horrible to me. Like feed me to mice or give me to the manong mambobote); or 18 (when my folks were more than happy to serve my debutante-ness upon a fluffy pink and silver platter, begging not-necessarily-eligible bachelors to whisk me off to a life of domesticity. There were no takers, though, and I blamed it on the fact that I knew jackshit about doing the laundry, making sammiches or shining black leather shoes back then. So I proceeded to skill myself in those areas of housewifery, and also, to give good head).

So I don’t know, maybe I’ll make something out of turning 22. Something that isn’t asinine or sarcastic, like most of my goals are (my 2007 Game Plan is one exception— I’m dead serious about that). One thing’s for sure: I’d like to have more Me Time this coming year. Or no, not Me Time, since I get enough of that during my daily commute to and from work; just more Quiet Time. I’d like to not find myself in a tizzy come the weekend.

Or maybe what I need is More Time. Okay, so that brings my wishlist to include two things: A Tan and More Time. Also, the complete Nancy Sinatra collection, please. There, three.

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‘FAGGORT’ IS THE WATCHWORD.

April 16, 2007 at 5:22 pm | Filed under photos, the internets, Y!M conversations

You’re a gay if you didn’t get socially-retarded with us at Man Blog Poker Night last Saturday. As gay as Mikey is in this photo.

Maybe not gay. Just… not cool. Enough.

This is Mikey licking his monies:

This is Bim trying to reach for his nipple:

This is Ade. He’s pogi.

Shoot, wrong pic! NOT ADE, NOT ADE! This is Ade:

Poker Night photos here, here, and here.

Also, I injured myself again, accidentally kneeling on a headband while taking photos. Nasty, I know. Plus, the scab on my right knee is starting to peel, and I know that wounds are nothing new to me since I am one of the clumsiest drunks alive, but— am I supposed to just let it be? Answer, so I know whether or not I can take off the scotch tape that I’m using to keep the scab intact.

SO ANYWAY! We have a new Furby. This is Drew trying to look like Teddy Bear Mislang, and succeeding.

This is me drinking AGAIN and in my Kylie-esque hoodie, Sunday morning.

I’ve had The Work of Director Mark Romanek on repeat since after PBB last night up until this morning (while having my seemingly standard three mugs of coffee with my crossword puzzles), so I decided to channel a little bit of Fiona Apple— ratty underwear, but with a little lot more meat. Argh. Another week, another shot at anorexia.

This is just too cute:

I’m aware that my entries of late have all been picture posts with some text thrown in. Fuck you all, that’s how much fun I’ve been having.

(And that’s how fried my brain is. Alcohol + travel industry + not enough sleep + reading up on home insurance quote + eating once a week— okay, okay, so maybe thrice a week = not good. Hand me the brain candy.)

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