Athan, whose real name I am so tempted to disclosing here but I think I will not--thank you better days, thank you respect--recently pissed me off. Like, big time.

I was so pissed off that a little snap would have been enough for me to give him loads of problems, just as what he was asking for, after describing me as someone who is congenitally problematic. You see, I don’t really mind sharing to others my problems and I think he wanted some.

Well, he did not use the word congenitally, but the way he said it, he was hinting that he sees me as someone congenitally problematic. Probably he did not use the word because he did not know what it really meant. And had he known what it meant, he would have used it and perhaps, he’s a cold ass by now.

(Mandaya said I am so Mr Bitter Ocampo. Fuckness! Hahahah…)

Well, he also called me ugly. But I did not mind that because I know, in my heart, that the new beau is uglier, if I am ugly. But I am not ugly, hello, and yet, the new beau is still ugly. I am not in denial or something, I want you to believe that, and ask me and I will tell you that the new beau, as I was told by my cousin Daniel, is really ugly.

And my cousin, for the hotness of him, said I am not ugly. And he was not saying it because we were cousins and I believe him for saying that, you know, not because we were cousins but because he was hot. Like, really hot—imagine all those carved muscles and all but not really grossly carved. He was just perfectly, well almost perfectly, toned. Wait, I am not suggesting something like I am entertaining incest here, please, no matter how he asked me to wrap him around my arms while he was deprecating Athan and the ugly beau.

(Ang gulo ano? Hahahaha…nakakaloka)

Had it not been for my threatening flails—hints of it he so slowly realized—I bet he would have not given up his little game until now. Wait, we are back to Athan now. I am done with my cousin—the hot cousin. So Athan, everytime he pisses me off, I bet, is getting a huge hard-on.

I know in my heart that he tries to engage me into intellectual exchanges because he’s not getting any from the new beau—the uglier beau. But Athan’s shots were so lame, really, that I felt like I so wanted to puke on myself everytime I read his messages on my friendster account that he tracked down. And so I had to tell Athan that we better stop the exchanges because the process was so one-way street—he was getting a hard-on while it did not even warrant any desire from me to initiate a foreplay.

And so I had to insist that we better stop it before I forget that I am nice. He knows it that I am a nice person. And my being nice gives him a little protection. But I am not all nice, and he, too, knows that most of me is a bitch. You see, I don't mind outing people in public. Or beat someone to it.

God, I am writing this while Elton John’s voice was rising to almost a beautiful falsetto as he breathed life into his tiny dancer. And Penny Lane’s image was impossibly etched into my mind like the color of the fallen flowers of the fire trees I saw several post-summer months ago in Sarangani Province.