Sunday, November 22, 2009


Certain people have expressed their worries over my existence, oftentimes in intimidating manner, especially men whom their ladies are befriending me, though this intimidating behavior of them shook me none at all. They thought I one day will be winning their girls away from them.

Rather childish, I'd say, for them to have such thoughts.

Listen now;

If your ladies keep talking about me to you, or having frequent conversations with me, that is because I have a blog that somewhat pleases them by means of reading. Although I am good with words relative to the most of you insecure boys, I could have sworn that somehow my capacity of patience is somewhat lesser than all of you.

As I said earlier and always have: as long as there is no ring in her finger, a girl can do whatever she damn well please with. So don't try to act a husband around her.

Nevertheless I hope the panic could slow down, now that I am announcing that I am not in any way interested at the particular moment to have any relationship with anyone. So please calm down and be cool in front of your ladies, for these females look high on you to behaving like a man. In fact when they (the ladies) talked to me, they always complained about how you have been treating them lately. Be nice to them, will you?

You can now have all the spotlight you want, but this does not mean you are anymore better than everybody else, me included.

And as a token of apology/appreciation/love/change/LRT/absolutely-bloody-nothing-at-all for your stepped-on ego issues (please check under my foot for recovery), I shall recite this poem personally to you for your own entertainment. Presenting 'Two Types of Men' by Mr Goodfella:

"There is one problem
with those men who do not write.
They seem to think that we,
the men who write,
get all the juice.
The problem is,
in terms of relationship
we were always on the
losing side.
We, the men who write,
we write our sorrow,
we write our madness,
we write our life,
of living and wandering,
not a grand one,
in style.
We, the men who write,
under the bridge,
in the gloomy and smoky, cheap hotel room,
in the middle of the city, alone.
Never tired.
Because, we know,
that, their (the men who do not write)
women are reading.
And wondering,
why didn't my man write like this."

* * *

"May the best man wins," he said from the other corner of the empty lounge, "cheers!"

I hold up my glass pointing at him at a distant and gave a slight nod and a thoughtful smile

"Cheers to the cloud," I replied, "and cheers to the both of us"

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