Where is it!? Just show me where it is so we can all have world peace!
June 11, 2006.
I think Rollo was right. Once I start to get settled with a boyfriend, I would begin to blog blah! blogs. No more angst. No more bitterness. No more loneliness to bitch about. I'd stop bullying my 
exes. Because that feeling of being in-love (gods, this is not so me and not so my blog!) makes cherry blossoms bloom in this humid country. I have to scour for that inspiration somewhere, somehow. Under the chair. The face on my screen. Last trip to Subic. Memoirs for friends. I miss those pains. They make me write so copiously. I miss those sleepless nights. Now it seems that blogging is like doing a copy for a commercial on a shampoo I have no use for. I felt like writing a composition for a class under a professor you could never please. I'm ranting. Can't you notice?!
Then I checked my Friendster hits. It says 13 views since 06/06/2006. Bad numbers. Hmmmmm... there's my stimuli. Evil numbers. I like.
Am I evil? I want to. At least, that's what I want everyone to believe. But Bagbag would passionately protest with "Aaawww, no Bagbag ko... You're my angel." Stop it, not now.
Two hours before blogging (I was in front of the PC for more than five hours now and it all started with browsing on the history of papal tiaras -- tiarae? -- on Google, I don't know why) I chatted with a friend from G4M, Doc Cryo. I inquired about this other friend of ours, Chocnut, who have become scarce after some misunderstandings I thought have long been mended out. But it seems not, according to Doc Cryo. So I supposed that he was simply pretending to have forgiven everyone the last time we had dinner at Bubba Gump. I added, "So there were about three hypocrites on that table. Him included." Doc Cryo said, "He might have also thought everyone in the table were hypocrites." I exclaimed, "Well, at least he was right on seeing me as a hypocrite. Because I was wrong in thinking that he was not."
Really. In every gathering with my friends, I lay down the stories of my life like an open book. That I am the slut. That I licked somebody’s ass to get myself inside Embassy (others are quite 
more evil; they enter Embassy first, then lick ass). That I caused the last earthquake in
Why be evil? Why not? Ok, ok, ok… it doesn’t answer the question. Being evil is one idea that could not be simply configured by a simple sentence, albeit a technical one. In tagalog, hindi ito isang payak na simuno (if you can’t recall your balarila then don’t ask; because I don’t either). Let me explain, therefore, by recalling a true-to-my-life scenario.
Way back September last year, when wounds were still fresh from the pains of being deceived by an ex-lover and an ex-friend (unless some of my readers have not been amiss on my older blogs, my ex-lover took off with my ex-friend) I was profuse with tears cursing heavens as to “why me?! why me?!” I started to question whether it was really good to be good when all the while evil men (and in this case Evil Women) prosper. Is evil good, then? Or, with the subject transposed without being evasive to the sense of the previous sentence (I’m showing off), is it good to be evil? Rollo grew goose bumps as big as 
judgement. They're well prepared for the guillotine. The good ones wallow with only the Bible or Leo Buscaglia to comfort them while the evil ones run off with the prize. But the good… Yeah, yeah, yeah so the good ones go to heaven. But as Ecto said, bad girls go everywhere.
So, if I’m really evil, would I have the capacity to commit the most detestable act (we’re not talking about something heinous yet), say setting somebody’s house on fire? Ahm, are we talking of arson here? Because I know one who attempted to burn down a house after he got dumped by his lover. Some of my old and closest friends know about this story and the guy could still be seen carousing in Malate every weekends. In fact, we so mercilessly call him arsonista we forgot his real name. I heard it from a friend who knows the friend of the guy whose house almost gutted by fire. Now, if this is a rumour, I’m not the one who started it. Clear?
Yes I can. And Tamburong is lucky enough to have been dumped by me instead of me being the dumpee. Otherwise, I know where he lives.
Ok, would I be capable of a heinous crime, say murder? Categorically… ahm… err… that Duffy D is lucky enough as well. I don’t know where he lives.
If I am to follow the Aristotelian concept that man, by nature, is good then being evil is a talent. As a talent it is a gift, either one has it or he doesn’t. Wait. You know what, I don’t like that idea. It gives me little chances. I rather believe that being evil is a skill. And all that one has to do in order to have it is study and practice. Would you agree that this blog is my little study on being evil? Then tomorrow I’d be practicing down the street by bitching everyone and everything that cross my path. So don’t annoy me.
Honestly, my solemn resolve to become evil just got tested awhile past as I chatted with my niece. She was reminding me of our family reunion this coming Sunday. I said I’m not going, without batting an eyelash. Why, she asked?
Wala lang. Di ko type. I’d go if it’s a funeral.
Now, where is it?! Where?! That pillow! The sun is starting to rise and it’s time for the evil ones to sleep as the good ones churn the economy. Oh, shit, it’s a holiday.
Oh well, I’ll just dream of preparing for myself a roasted carcass of a dead duck (redundant statement in memory of my late elder brother’s funny English; unless you fail to spot it, you too is blessed with a funny English). As the carcass rotates on a skewer over some burning remain of what used to be a house, I reminisce with impassioned delight the process of killing the duck. Decapitation.
***This blog is for Ryo and Bagbag. For unconditionally loving an evil person.***
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