different programming this holy week

When you meet someone you haven’t met for a long time, there are a damned lot of things you can talk about. I mean there’s bound to be some juicy thing you could milk for conversation. I know this, because although I am offensive and self-absorbed, I am never a terrible bore.

This is why, yesterday, someone paid me a small visit in my filthy dark cell. Victor looked okay this time, healthier than the last time he needed my help, and I saw he finally gave up on the goth costume. And the retard wanted a bit of chat. For entertainment. And advice.

“So what do you think. Hmm,” the twerp said after spilling his guts. It was something to do with a person he calls Marat Safran Foer. I felt a familiar urge to pound his face into jelly, but there was a hint of worry underneath his gruff tone, so I played nice tried to be nice.

“I thought we’re clear that I am not your agony-fucking-aunt. And I hate it when you use the funeral-director voice on me.”

“No, Greg, you’re right. You’re not my agony aunt. You’re a figment of my imagination. You’re my alternate personality. You don’t exactly have a choice but to work with me, do you?” He sounded pleased this time. He smoothed a crease in the sleeve of his sissy-white shirt and smiled at me drily.

“It sucks to be your make-believe twin. Or whatever it is I’m supposed to be. Why don’t you just write about this, this thing? Ah, yeah, you did. And then you ended up writing crap that made Linda Blair throw up in her grave.”

“Linda Blair is still alive. She lives in Missouri and has a movie this year.” Then the poor dude just stared stupidly at me like a cretin, and I knew then that I just outdid myself in crushing his ego in not more than four sentences. If I knew how to be guilty, If I had been programmed to be nice to him, I would have said sorry. But, man, it was a chance for me to be out of this godforsaken cage again.

So I said nothing and just stared at the empty space above his head, until he stood up from his chair and walked out the door without another word. He didn’t bother to lock me back up on his way out and left the set of keys on my bunk bed.

From the looks of it, his condition is serious. First time I ever saw him like this. Which means I’ll be around town for some time.

Oh, boy. I’ll be having myself a lot of fun.

just another one of those days

Victor was on the bed, lying on his back staring at God knows what in the ceiling. For the millionth time, I told the retard off. “I don’t want to fucking talk, right? I’m not your agony aunt. Go find yourself a nice shrink. Or better yet, do a Leslie Cheung and throw in the towel.”

As it turned out, the nitwit is in a half-coma. I left him and got out of the room. If he just asks me nicely, I can do a lot of things for him–except listen to him whine like a loser about stuff. I just can’t stand whiners. Whiners are a lot like suicidals: they’re lazy and they just can’t seem to make up their own damn minds.

It was already past midnight so there was nowhere much to go. I went inside a bar and ordered a beer. I browsed Victor’s phone and chose a random number in the junk’s phone book. In about thirty minutes, I had company.

Let’s call the bloke Cullum because his name starts with the same letter and he looks a bit like the jazz singer Victor likes so much. But mainly because he looks like a nice little hobbit. I mean, hey, not bad, but all Cullum needs is hairy feet and he could give Elijah Wood a run for his money.

“You look different,” he told me in perfect call center English.

“When was the last time we met again?”

“About a year ago. I was actually surprised you texted me.” He looked at me like he’s really confused. “I thought you said you weren’t interested. You did not even keep in touch after you left the company.”

“Well, I guess I changed my mind, right?”

Cullum pursed his lips and examined his nails. It was dark in the bar and he was examining his goddamn fucking nails. No one looks at his goddamn fucking nails when I’m around. I suddenly wanted to hit his face.

“You see, I’m a better guy now. You want to know how much better?”

“You look worse, if you ask me. Which is nice, since you used to look so, uh, ‘proper.'” He drew quoation marks in the air with his fingers.

“Masyado kang maraming alam, para kang lalake,” I told him and he laughed at my sudden switch to Filipino. He playfully punched me in the ribs and rested his arm on my shoulders. I let it stay there.

Hours later, when Victor would be done whining against the pillows, he would find out about Cullum and he would be stinking mad at me. But at the time, everything’s cool and Cullum’s arm felt nice and I forgave him for looking at his nails in front of me.

it’s that time again

My wrists are fresh and raw from being fucking bound for the last two weeks. Not in tight ropes, mind you. But in bloody iron chains. I mean, what the hell?

And then I told Victor there was really no need for the collar and leash.

“You are not in a position to negotiate,” the bastard said and then asked me to show my neck. “You’ve had fun and what else can you ask for?”

You’ve had a lot of fun and what else can you ask for. The moment he said this rubbish, I suddenly wanted to beat him up. Number one, it’s not like he let me out of my cell just because he wanted me to have a bit of fun. We both damn knew he needed me to take over so I could fix up a ton of his mess.

Number two, well, I just badly wanted to beat someone up.

Only I would not really ever dare to cross Victor. His dating skills suck, his political leanings are obsolete, and his short stories will only be liked by his friends. But that’s the most I could ever get to piss him off.

I hate to admit, but he’s really the stronger guy between the two of us. Among other things, as he often liked to say with a smirk.

So I stayed in my cell like a good boy and awaited orders. I have a hunch Victor’s not done needing me yet. I saw him often staring at a blank page in his notebook. Whoa. Lookit that, I thought. He’s lost for words.

And come on, you have to give it to me, you guys liked me. And for Victor, you know, it sort of left him bigger shoes to fill. My shoes.

So earlier this morning, I heard the sound of opening locks and then Victor was there against the frame of the cell iron bars, staring at me. Trying to look casual. Trying to pretend he doesn’t need a favor. Trying to just look cool. Pathetic loser.

“I guess you want to say good bye on my blog,” he finally said in his trademark Deadpan Tone. He uses that tone only on me and, right now, on four or five other people.

“Our blog?” I replied, just to try to tick him off.

“No. Mine. Let’s just say your blogging benefits are, err, “coterminus” with the job you just had to do for me. So perhaps you want to write a farewell post.”

“Cotermanus, your ass.”

Victor kept silent and just led me out of my cell. He showed me a fucking new laptop I haven’t seen before. He said I have an hour.

Jeez, what am I supposed to say here? I mean, I don’t honestly think this would be my last. Well, at least I hope so. But leave your comments, right? And I’ll ask Victor to read them to me through the bars.

For now, I’d just say you guys are awesome and you are the coolest folks I’ve ever met. And well, yeah, remember to miss me please?

*You know where the photo is from, buddy.

too late is too bad

The thing with stories about myself is that I enter the picture only at the very end. And this is not even all the time. Which sucks. Big time. Often, I am supposed to just clean up the mess. But sometimes I hit the jackpot. Like this time Victor dated this poor guy. Let’s call him Paul. Because that’s his real name.

Some dyke friend of his struck up the deal and Victor was supposed to meet Paul at this coffee shop. It was a Saturday, I think. More than a year ago. Victor was late as usual and had to ask the embarrassing question “What are you wearing?” Through a text message. Having to do stuff like that can fuck him up real bad.

Paul turned out to be stinking cool. He was lanky and the type of skinny that fits snugly in a hug. Looked very middle class in his neatly pressed golf shirt and khakis. Except for his left eyebrow, which was pierced with a shard of something metal.

And then Paul made his first mistake. He opened the conversation by mentioning some bar that Victor knew nothing about. He pratted on and on about partying and going to the gym and the pain of heavy traffic on Monday rush hour. By the time his hands started going for Victor’s cold, bored knees, I knew that the guy would be all mine.

What damned Paul was what happened after.

“I am getting something to eat. This hexagon torte cake I like. You want anything?” Paul only got rewarded by a shake of the head.

I waited until he was at the counter, then I asked Victor, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You being picky, Mr Bachelor? Who were you expecting, a gorgeous Proust scholar?”

Victor of course, at first, did not say anything. He needs only my help, never my opinion. And then he did say something: “It’s the cake. Everything hangs on the cake. You’ll see. Here he comes.”

Paul beamed a toothy smile as he placed his cake and mug of coffee on the table. Victor took a look at Paul’s cake and said, “I thought you said hexagonal.”


“Your cake. You said it was hexagonal. It’s actually triangular in shape.”

“Oh. What does it matter.” Then Paul beamed the toothy smile again that would melt the ice of any heart except Victor’s. He then went on and talked about his life at the office.

When the poor guy finally realized he was speaking to a rock and excused himself to the rest room, I confronted Victor again. “So what now, huh?”

“He is undeniably, uh, nice. But I cannot continue to be with someone who does not know basic shapes. You can take it from here.”

And so I did. The second Victor was out, I undid the first two buttons of my shirt and pulled my chair closer to Paul’s. When he came back, he no longer beamed the the toothy smile, but it was my turn to do the moves. I did not give a damn if he doesn’t know basic shapes as long as he knew his vowels.

In less than ten minutes, he asked me if I wanted to see a movie. I don’t know how long it is before Victor gets bored and takes over again, so I said yes, why not.

On our way to his car outside the cafe, I stole a quick glance at the pastry counter and saw Paul’s cake at once. It was one big whole cake and a single slice was missing. And it was, in fact, hexagonal.

“See that, loser?” I whispered at the back of my screwed-up mind, grinning.

*photo is from Fight Club again. Hehe.

hello, meet me

I’m taking over for now. He will be away for quite some time, and I don’t have any idea when he’ll be back. So don’t ask me, okay. I don’t give a flying fuck. He can do whatever he likes and I’ll just do my job. Which is basically to fix his life.

He wouldn’t admit it here, but he’s in deep shit right now. Approximately six, seven inches of it. If he were in control right now and he were the one writing this post, you would have been reading the usual BS he fills this blog with. Either some watered-down Marxist shit that no one cares about, or some dark-humoured nonsense that only he finds funny. He feeds his ego with pretenses and delusions of order. As far as I’m concerned, the main thing of this blog is to censor himself from the usual artsy emo crap he writes every now and then in his other blog.

Earlier when we were in the bookshop and he was looking for a book to read, I made him get an Eco. Those Ishiguros and Ondaatjes and McEwans make him too much of a sissy. He tried to negotiate on a Roald Dahl, but the title sounds suspicious, so I said no.

“Don’t push your luck. Just do what I say. Otherwise, I’ll leave you alone to fix your own mess,” I told him. He didn’t say anything back and just took the Eco. (He also secretly grabbed a Wilde on his way to the cashier when I wasn’t looking, but I finally decided to just let it go. It’s his dough that he’s wasting for crap like that, so what do I give a damn for.)

To be fair with the guy, he can usually manage by himself, though barely. Almost always by just the skin of his own teeth. Between the two of us, he’s the one who has a bank of useless, trivial ideas that he stretches to strange theories. Aside from that, he’s not much use for anything else. Especially when it comes to the practical street stuff. Which is why he needs me every now and then.

Unlike him, I can be quite specific about myself and about what I want. He speaks in riddles when he is in a good mood and nothing at all when in a really bad one. But he tries to be honest in between moods.

As for me, I always go for the straightforward. If I had been a blogger, my posts would shock, and he would both despise and admire me at the same time, if ever he comes across my blog. Only I never get the chance to to sign-up for my own blogger account. I’m a little taken aback when he gave me his account password last night. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked him. “Post an entry on my blog,” he told me in that deadpan voice that uses only on me.

So maybe I’ll get to write about myself after all. I don’t think Victor will get back anytime soon. Maybe I’ll get to write the next post, too. For now, let me introduce myself. I’m Greg.

*To humor him, I asked him to pick a photo that would go with this post. I noticed he goes for this kind of gimmick. To humor me, he picked this still from a scene in Fight Club, one of my favorite flicks. I agree it’s kind of appropriate.