Monthly Archives: July 2012

Mars is our Asshole

It’s quite obvious that Mars is our asshole.

I mean, it’s been with us for such a long time but it was never possible to get glimpses of it ’til recently.

And even today you have to go to drastic measures and use highly advanced technologies just to take crappy snapshots of it

(oh, the gadgets and techniques you’ll have to employ).

It has mischievously poked mankind’s collective fantasy for centuries,

tickling it

until we giggle with the unearthly sensations.

It’s inserted itself in our highest works of art and our foulest films; a cosmopolitan cultural icon colonizing our consciousness.

But in all its omnipresence, it’s still a mystery.

Aside from the fact that it’s red and bumpy

we don’t really know anything about it.


there’s also the fact that it’s uninhabitable.

They say it’s full of carbon dioxide and other foul-smelling gasses,

noxious fumes that will make anyone’s eyes pop out

like Arnold’s in Total Recall.

But even though I’m no scientist, I can tell that there’s life there.

There has to be. Did you know that they found organisms in boiling magma? So why not this place?

Experience tells me that life can bloom in the filthiest of places.

So there’s hope and promise

that someday, we’ll come face-to-base with the thing that has haunted our imagination from time immemorial,

the black hole of our being,

the shadowy tunnel into the unknown.

We’ll see it,

feel it,

smell it,

taste it,

and then we’ll know who we truly are.

But I also know that someday soon our corrupt instincts will get the better of us

and we’ll find ourselves

drilling the shit out of that poor, sore soil for fleeting pleasures.

And the universe will hear our groans and moans;

lonely asswipes in paradise lost.


Inspired by photos of Mars:

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Why She Wanted a Drink

Now I understand why she absolutely hated nights when we didn’t drink.

There were those innumerable nights when we’d end up going at each other’s throats just because she wanted to drink and I didn’t. We’re not talking about your usual Friday after-work rinse here or the scheduled weekend liver beatdown. Believe it or not, we’re talking about Tuesdays or Wednesdays–even Mondays.

I’d notice it early in the day. Like she’s not comfortable with how the day’s turning out. As if she knew where this was all heading. I knew where. I knew I’d end up in bed, watching TV, which was exactly how I wanted it to be night after night after night. And I made it clear to her. I made it clear that the only thing I longed to do after the work’s done and all the clothes were thrown on the floor or barely hanging on the edge of the bed was to lie back, relax, and watch the goddamn TV. Maximize the use-value of that wretched, silver box of pictures, which weighed a freakin’ ton. Almost broke our backs when we carried it from Recto onto that plastic table where it sat for quite a long time.

But she wanted no part of it. No part of TV watching. No part of lying on the bed. Heck, she begged to be left out of cuddling or anything mushy for that matter.

She had to drink.

And you know what? I really understand it now. Why we had to fight over this simple thing.

It doesn’t seem absurd to me now to be walking to the office, feeling uncomfortable with how the day’s turning out. Because I know where it’s all heading and, the truth is, I don’t wanna be there.

And another truth is that I don’t really miss her–well, not as much as somebody who’s supposed to admit that he misses someone should miss that person. What I mean to say is that tonight, with these feelings in my heart and the thoughts in my mind, I still don’t have the right to say I miss her.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand her ’cause I really get it now probably more than ever.

This thirst for alcohol is the thirst for something different. It’s the desire to grasp father time by the beard and say, “Wait a fuckin’ minute, bozo!” To mark this day as this and tomorrow as that. To chop up life into little, potently intoxicating chunks of memories that you could admire when you’re sober and sitting at a coffee shop somewhere. This thirst is a faint whisper as loud as a scream in the middle of a busy crossroads to make everyone stop for a bit. Or, you know, hypnotize yourself into thinking that they’re indeed stopping even when you know deep inside they’re not. Nothing’s stopping for anything.

In other words, the whole point was to avoid this crushing feeling on the train home that you did exactly what you did yesterday and it’s utter madness. Utter madness.

I always thought she had a twisted childhood development that made her long too much for friends, acquaintances–drinking buddies who won’t be there when dawn broke. But why would she want anybody else? I was there.

But I get it now. It doesn’t work that way and watching TV, relaxed on a bed with somebody in your arms doesn’t fix jack squat. Even when I was there, she was lonely and kinda tired of tomorrows.

And you know what? So am I.

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