Operation: Gift-giving

The day has finally arrived!
And I know that you have not experienced anything like this: giddiness to the absolute power.
Be ready to faint for I will do stuff that would make even the straightest hair on your body curl like your favorite actress' lips.

Shakespeare vs Neruda

Not a thesis. Not even one of those college papers that would make you cry to death until all that's left is the ashen-faced you.
I was watching Shakespeare In Love yesterday, love. And again, all my dreams of becoming a writer, a poet and a playwright just came flooding in like the great flood that swept off an entire barangay in your province or the floodlights that would signal the start of a play.
I so miss writing about every single thing that I feel.
I am dead afraid that I might end up losing my gift because I haven't been exercising my literary muscles for a long time.
So now, I must stretch my legs out and start running a mile's length of literary work a day.

And I have you to inspire me.

And mini maes.

And moysties.

Yellow Belt

Hello, my love... Just been through that one helluva training. And I think you may have to bring me to a hospital. I might just be suffering from intracerebral hemorrhage.
I know, exaggeration.

But soon enough, you'll be seing me flanked in a shiny golden yellow belt, puffing Biggie Ps out

off-topic whining

I know I promised to devote this entire blog to you.
But I have personal albeit, self-indulgent grievances that may pop in every once in a while.
Like the fact that there are some people who would claim to be your friend but would dish out your ideas in a speed of light...
Or those whose manner of writing is overly simplified (you'd feel the audience in mind are kindergarteners) that they would ask you to do the same thing. (simple speech = simple ideas = simple/trite-mindedness)

My love, you have long exalted me as the poet of your esteem whose tongue salivates with the sweetest words I offer at your spreaded moysties. And I thank you for your belief in me.

I admit that I am no Shakespearean guru. My English is not as flawlees as my uncle's. But I admit to my mistakes.

I know when I am wrong and when I am not.

And I love the way I write. I love the way I talk.
For you love the way I write and talk --- in its actuality.

And my mind will continue to beat with poetry just for you, my love.

on titles and meows and purrs

I have not explained my title, have I?
Especially for a newly-christened Assistant Manager (note: christened not promoted --- a trivial no-nonsense change in names: so that the rose would smell sweeter), you expect explanations to go pouring out in brief, poetic contractions.

Going back.

In Silence your meow will be Magnified.

I just like the sound.
It started with the 250-page screenplay I wrote that I entered in one of those phooey contests.
Because everything is magnified when all are silent. My stare when you are not reading your favorite comic book, is more delicious --- because it pierces your wonderful pimples. Or my touch when you are not watching your favorite show is more electrifying, more sensual and more horny.

And most especially, your meow when I kiss your purring moysties in the middle of the night (when everyone is asleep and everything snores)... magnified! to the boiling contraction sure to wake Mama up.

Master-B plan

B stands for Brilliant, beebee. I just want to make that clear before you beat me with a bat.

Not really. I just love the alliteration.

But by the time you read this, I may have given everything to you. Every single gift for every single day. Twenty three days to glorify the birth of the love of my life. Twenty three gifts to thank you for coming into my life.

I love you so much my love.

Sleep

I had a diarrheal sleep last night.
Because it came in spurts.
I had a fart-like sleep last night.
Because it came in poofs.
I had a dreamless sleep last night.
Because everytime I come close to dreaming
I wake up
And scream
because my arm hurts
because it needs your body on it.

Mani(a)c Monday

I know I should be happy.
Provided everything that has happened over the weekend. And just last night.
But I am not.
It's Monday, the start of a new workweek. And I am to sleep without you.
And I am to sleep without you.

A promise

I will try to write you everyday.
I hope you forgive the lack of poetic cadence and outbursts.
I so miss you here beside me, love.
I can sense we are sharing the same moment looking at the computer monitor. The sad part is I'm doing it for leisure whilst you are swamped with work.
I wish I am right there beside you and helping you out, showing my 'prowess' in excel so that you won't have to talk to other people and ask them for help.
They might hold it against you.
Or they might think you owe them.
Forgive the cynicism, love. It's just the way I am.
Weird thing is that I don't believe in the goodness in other people.
Whereas I remain pure.
Whereas my intentions are always without vested interest.
Whereas I started loving you without even asking anything in return.
But you have loved me.
And you still love me.

Alone

But just for several hours.
I am trying hard not to fall asleep my love. You called to tell me that work is stressing the pores you so carefully wash everyday... and you complain of pimples...
Love, I have said this once, and I will say this forever.... I don't care about your pimples. You are perfect.
You are perfect.

Pee Em Es?

I'm here sitting beside you, eating the chicken joy I was craving for,
eating the chicken joy you were so gracious enough to allow me to have.
And you have just woke up.
And again, I have said the wrong things.
And again you are silent as the deadly fart escaping my butthole every 5 minutes.
Isn't it depressing to have someone to love whose idea of knowing you is saying all the wrong things that would make you sulk?
It is a different kind of knowing.
The kind of knowing I feel would make you think if I m worth everything you are doing---stuff you have sacrificed, stuff you are continually sacrificing.
I am again left with devilish thoughts that makes me soooo insecure.

Going back to my faithful chicken whose crispiness temporarily gives me a diversion to not think about stuff. (And how ingenious to deduce everything to stuff)
I wish it was your feelings that I am now dissecting that I may know and understand.
Maybe it is PMS.
Or maybe it is a symptom of something big.

Surprise!!!

You see, love you have been complaining that I never make you feel giddy.
You will not see this... just yet.
It will come as a --- yes, it's trite, a surprise.
And I can see your eyes now welling with tears. And I'm grinning from ear-to-ear. Both of us swelling with pride and uncontrollable horniness.
Come, let's to bed, toikee love and toikee pillow.
Forever.