When I say I've had a website since I was 17, it's not like I don't have a life. It's not like I am a full-time geekfreak with black-framed eyeglasses and skin problems.

And yet I do.

I confess: I am a geek. But you already know that. I'm the sort of geek who knows HTML, CSS, Javascript, Photoshop, Literature, Classical Latin, Physics, Calculus, and a bit of everything else.

I have this little cubbyhole in cyberspace where I stalk fabricated pretentious personalities and feed off other people's thoughts.

Outside this world I have little of a life: books, alcohol, friends, and mountains.

I tried to complicate my life last week by adopting a persian cat. His name is Iggy, with fur black as car tires and white as toilet paper, the two blending into a pattern of a cow's hide. This cat I adopted for a day, he dug his mighty sharpened claw into the burn scar on my left arm.

It hurt like a bitch. That tiny bleeding hole, it spouted blood ink, produced abstract blood art on my skin which caked and crusted and flaked off.

He should've punctured and scratched me with all his twenty claws and painted abstract blood art all over my body. But Iggy being a lazy yawning bum, he just leaped into my bed and stretched and sharpened his claws on my sheets. Sharpened his claws and yawned. Yawned and chased his tail in a circle. Chased his tail and sat. Sat and yawned again. Yawned and closed his eyes and slept for the rest of the day.

To all cat lovers out there, owning a cat is like having a white elephant. An albino elephant. A rarity. A gift from a royal asswipe. A giant dick-faced animal spared from work and consumes food and space and produces impressive farts and giant cakes of crap. All you lonely people don't need a cat. A cat is like a pill, a cure for the symptom but not the cause. To cure your loneliness, create a website like this, spin an arrogantly intellectual character like myself, and hook up with a fuckbuddy online. Or go out and plant ferns. Build a kite and get electrocuted. Subscribe to a religion and pretend to believe in God. Teach greasy street kids how to overthrow the government and rebel against the elite.

Do something else besides adopting a cat. It's a responsibility you never needed, don't need, and never will. If you have rats, go buy pellets of rat poison instead. Cos if there's anywhere cats belong, it's in Chowking's siopao meal.

For a moment Iggy slept there in his spread-eagle position, displaying his neck, four armpits, and stubby little catdick. This bed, my bed, he's claimed it a property of his own. The way he's spread himself to occupy the maximum space available, he's gone way beyond making himself at home.

I forced myself to unconditionally love Iggy without regret or wanting anything in return. I petted him. I stroked his pate, his cheeks, his underbelly, his nipples.

What I really needed was some reaction, a tiny purr, a lick on my fingers, or a knowing look into my eyes.

And yet he didn't.

He just lay there snoozing or squinting, not giving a fuck to anything else.

That afternoon, all I received was static electricity from stroking his fur, which shed off on my bed, spread on my mattress, on my blanket, my pillows, my clothes, my floor. And by the end of the day my room was a haystack of cat hair.

I tried to commit myself but it didn't work out.

Iggy, my unrequited love and one-day stand.

My summer days are an endless battle between boredom and silence, only to be disrupted by internet geekship, reading books, getting drunk, and climbing mountains.

These little commitments that I have--my affair with the internet, my oral sex with books, anal sex with alcohol, and orgy with mountains--is getting a way tad monotonous and stupefyingly boring. All this sex replayed frontside and backside every week sizzles out the passion.

In another attempt for commitment, I tried out in UP Dragonboat Team.

It isn't like I am outgoing, that I am a thrill-seeking adventurous phony extrovert ready to talk to anybody anytime anywhere and assume I am exploding with abundant vibrant energy. If there's anything I hate, it's people. And it's people without a sense of humor. If there isn't anybody to ridicule and humiliate everybody else with, I simply flop out. My energy reserves go kiblitz and melt into the floor towards the center of the earth. By the end of it I'm as friendly as a houseplant. It's not like I haven't a molecule of self-confidence in me to taunt and flout them all solo flight. It's just that I can't mingle and connect with people I don't know squat about. All this sneering and jeering which I'm incredibly good at, I'd need to have a sidekick. A compadre. Someone to laugh at my every sick joke and agree with my every stupid opinion. Someone very much like a dog. To which comes in Bernard.

Bernard is a huge polar bear of chinese decent with his fat flapping like human hide worn over his own skin. He wears eyeglasses with square frames the shape of glass plates placed under a microscope. His nose reminds me of a savage hawk and his teeth are tiny yellow buildings competing for gum real estate in his mouth. Bear-nard's wearing a white sleeveless which exposes the marshmallowy fat right below his armpits. At first impression you'd think he's some chinese emigrant selling textile in Divisoria. But behind all those fat and sweaty loose outfit, he was supposed to be a doctor. That is, until he dropped out of UP Medicine. How he'd come here is he's bored bumming and staring at walls and floorboards back home. To break his pathetic little domestic routine, he's tried out for the dragonboat team one chance. To keep his fat from depositing and turning him into a giant man-shaped quavering gelatin. To have a taste of what's it like to belong to a group of sun-tanned, scary muscular people with arms, chest, and shoulders blown up to Johnny Bravo proportions. To get a glimpse of what's it like to be macho. And hot. And have girls slaver at the sight of his bicep.

Where it's at is behind CCP at those waters that stink of sewers and garbage. Manila Bay is replete with busy microorganisms and phytoplankton and bacteria you wouldn't want splashed in your mouth or eye. The water is so filthy you can dip you're hand and won't see any of it. In this neglected docking port, urban dwellers have discharged their disgusting shit and sewage and killed the water along with its own universe of marine life. Just dipping in this muck for ten minutes could grant you ear infection, dysentery, typhoid fever, viral and bacterial gastroenteritis, and hepatitis A, all these from the colon bacillus which came from the insides of our assholes.

The way we've shit all this bacteria into the sea, they've gained consciousness and are searching for their way home--back into us through our orifices. Their sweet little microscopic revenge.

At five in the morning, you can barely make out the silhouette of the urban landscape patterned out of cubed walls and glass. Far away they're like paper cutouts folded and lopsided and painted the grayest of gray to look real. Docked and anchored at the garbage-filled bedrock are the boats and ships for domestic trade still sleeping by the port. All these are clothed with a thick fabric of smog, the way you'd wake up and open the windows one morning and realize your house relocated into the heart of subterranean factories girdled with traffic, all of them coughing out thick black smoke.

It's this depressing snapshot of Manila Bay that made me miss my oxygen and my green forests and my mountains and my alcohol and my monkey friends getting drunk with me up there. How these two activities are different are two parallel universes apart. But the more I imbibed in those smells and sights the more I missed my mountains.

How contrite, two-timing hiking with rowing--it's like having sex with your paramour while thinking of your distant lover just to get it over with.

This is getting pretty long I better shut it.XP

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