Date a Man Who Wears Watermelons on His Feet

Date a man who wears watermelons on his feet. Date a man who wears watermelons on his feet instead of shoes, who has problems eating watermelons because he considers the fruit footwear. Date a man who has a fridge full of watermelons and damp feet soaked in watermelon juice.

Find a man who wears watermelons on his feet. You’ll know that he does because he will always have big, green orbs of produce below the ankles–you can’t really miss it. He’s the one who can barely walk because watermelons don’t have a flat surface, the one who makes a weird squishing sound with every step. You see that bloke dragging bits of pink flesh along the street with a swarm of flies behind him? That’s the one. He can never resist sticking his feet into that cold, wet goodness, especially if they are plump and ripe.

He’s the man who doesn’t give a flying squirrel’s ass about your party’s dress code. He’ll wear watermelons for any ocassion. If you take a peek at those poor watermelons, the insides are already brownish slush because the man’s feet work better than a blender. Relax. Sit down. Don’t yell at him or you might receive a watermelon kick to the chest.

Buy him another bunch of watermelons.

Let him know what you really think of Citrullus lanatus. See if he knows the rich history of the fruit first cultivated in Egypt in the 2nd millenium BC, eventually spreading through India, China, Europe, and into the New World. Impress that watermelon-wearing bastard with your knowledge.

It’s easy to date a man who wears watermelons on his feet. Give him his favorite things on his birthday, and that would be… er… Correct. Watermelons. Just go to the nearest grocery store, bring a cart, and dump as many of those giant globes of fructose on his doorstep. Understand that he knows the difference between a ripe and a not-so-ripe watermelon, but by god he’s still going to take all of them because he’s freakishly obsessed with these things a completely normal person would eat.

Doesn’t matter if the fruits don’t fit. He’ll give it a shot somehow.

Wear them with him. If he understands contagious psychosis, he will understand your need to wear watermelons on your feet, too. Behind those twitchy eyes that have obviously been long out of touch with reality lie derangement, delirium, neurosis, and a dormant desire to kill people serially.

Fail him. Because a man who wears watermelons on his feet knows that failure could be a sign of originality. Instead of watermelons, wear coconuts sometimes or… I don’t know… cantaloupes. You can also probably wear pineapples as gloves and… and wear a papaya bra or something.

Why be frightened of using fruits as articles of clothing? Men who wear watermelons understand that there’s nothing to fear. Except early onset of rot.

If you find a man who wears watermelons on his feet, keep him close. When you find him up at 2 AM, in the dark, carving up a fresh one out of the fridge and weeping, blend him a glass of fruit juice and hold him. You may lose him a couple of hours as he takes a stroll around the neighborhood in his pyjamas and watermelons but he’ll always come back to you. He’ll talk as if the watermelons are people, because for a while, they always are. To him.

He’ll propose to you while you’re in the bathroom taking a shit. Or during a serious meeting in the office. Or in a funeral. Because he’s fucking nuts.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why you never thought of wearing watermelons on your feet before. I mean–whoever said we should wear animal hide around our soles, anyway? Sounds as random as wearing watermelons, really. He will introduce your children to other lunatic stuff like a banana dog on a leash or a berry aquarium. At that point, the sky’s the limit to craziness you’d both be surprised you haven’t murdered each other yet during a particularly violent hallucination-filled episode.

Date a man who wears watermelons on his feet because you deserve it. You deserve a man who can give you the most abnormal life possible. If you only want common boot or loafer-wearing folk, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a man who wears watermelons. On his feet.

Or better yet, date a man who wears vegetables.

A Little Man Once Fell In Love With a Little Woman

Let me tell you a story about little people.

Once there lived a happy village of little people–people so little they weren’t bigger than the grains of sand on the seashore. This happened a long time ago in a time nobody can remember now except me, but this little tale nevertheless happened–as sure as the little hand of the clock moves as I speak–and I tell it to you now before I lose its beautiful memory like the unfortunate others.

In this little town of little people lived a little, simple man who fell in love with the most beautiful little woman in the village. To say that the gap between the two was heaven and earth would be cliche but it’s nonetheless accurate, for the little man had little to nothing in life and the little beautiful woman had plenty of beautiful things besides her beautiful face.

Without any realistic hope of ever capturing the heart of the little woman, the little man dreamed big dreams and resigned himself to following the many likes and exploits (small as they were and ultimately insignificant) of the little woman. But a person in love sees everything different, and for the little man, every little thing that the little woman did was of epic proportions in every way.

But the little woman’s diminutive father was troubled. Everyone in the little village liked his daughter but none seemed able to attract her attention, so to ensure her future, he gathered the people in a tiny town hall where the best men in the village could make their strongest case to be the little woman’s betrothed.

There was much excitement around the cramped town hall that day as the villagers waited for the three most eligible bachelors to state their case to marry the wonderful minute woman in the center of the room. The little man of course was in the crowd but he wasn’t foolish enough to nominate his little self for such an important role and in such grand proceedings.

“Very well,” said the diminutive father, “step forward and tell me why my daughter should marry you.”

The first man–a proud one with his chin held high–stepped into the circle and spoke, “My dear, you should marry me because I will give you my little name passed down over a thousand generations to me by my family. A family so proud and held in such high regard that the moment you speak my name, the little people of this little village would bow their heads so low they would effectively disappear into the earth.”

The people clapped but the little woman never even blinked.

The second man–gaudily dressed with pockets as big as his head–moved to the center and said, “My dear, you should marry me for I will shower you with all the little riches that can be found in the four corners of this little village and the tiny country beyond: gold, jewels, property–everything you can ever think of. I have it. And I will gladly give it to you if you give me your little hand.”

There was much applauding that echoed inside the hall but the little woman’s lips never even twitched.

The third man–serious in demeanor and wearing a short beard–quietly walked into the circle and spoke, “My dear, you must marry me because this little head of mine houses the biggest mind in this little village, nay the entire universe. From now until we die, I promise to fascinate you with knowledge that only I possess and you’ll never have any question again because no secret of existence is a mystery to me.”

There was an uproar of little voices following the third man’s words but the little woman never even moved a muscle.

Greatly disappointed by her daughter’s obvious lack of interest, the diminutive father lost all hope and decided to end the short meeting. “I wish to express my gratitude to everyone who came here, but it appears my little daughter has little feelings for the tiny men who made their proposals. If there’s nobody else, you may now go ho–”

“Excuse me, sir!”

“What? Did anyone speak?”

“Over here, sir! I-I wish to make my case to be your daughter’s betrothed.”

And everyone in the town hall focused their little eyes on the little man so little, everyone in the little room seemed bigger compared to him. Some sniggered, a few snickered, and a couple of them laughed so loudly their voices carried over to the farthest side of the little village.

Thinking that the little man had no chance to win her daughter’s approval anyway, the diminutive father chose to let the man speak. “Very well, state your case, little man, before we retire.”

The little man stepped into the circle and said:

“My dear, I do not deserve your hand by any stretch of the imagination but I want it more than any man–nay, any soul in this little room. Your days are spent spreading beauty in this otherwise dreary little village, but little did you know that I have been following you closely, every dainty step of your little feet, every wave of your pretty little hands, for I have fallen for you so deeply that I feel like the earth’s core and you are the sun.”

Miraculously, the little woman’s eyes expressed a sudden glow and her lips arched to reveal the most stunning smile.

The little man continued, “I have no proud name to give; my family has lived for generations in relative anonymity to the most noble among our people. And I have no riches; I can barely find enough bread to feed myself every day. Most of all, I have no wisdom of the world to impart because the only thing I ever think about is you, my dear, beautiful one.”

The diminutive father’s jaw dropped as he saw his tiny daughter increasingly enthralled by the silver words of the little man.

“Thus, my dear, I have nothing to offer you. Nothing except my life that I promise to spend watching you grow more dazzling than ever before, and making you the happiest as can be possible in a small, small village like this. It can be said that my short life has had no real direction up to this day, and this day I find out if I am to wake another morning with purpose or without. But my heart will be still in contentment knowing your answer… My dear, do you accept my offer?”

Gleaming, beaming, the little woman stood up from her chair and slowly walked over to the little man.

Just then, a giant boot came down from the skies and squashed the little village of little people and everyone instantly died. Actually, it might have been you while you were on your way to the office this morning. It’s a real shame but little people perish every day when big people go to work, and it’s no biggie.

9 Sure-fire Tips to Expand Your Mind!

Life is too short to be content with commonplace ideas and philosophies society bombards us with. What use is being called Homo sapiens, “the thinking man,” if we refrain from using every bit of time we have left to enhance our meditating faculties? So in the interest of the purely rational mind and for the sake of posterity, we have compiled a list of intellectual tasks and mental exercises you can perform to expand your mind:

1. Start reading serious books. — Stephen Hawking didn’t become Stephen Hawking by reading Spider-Man, and Ayn Rand didn’t come up with Objectivism by immersing herself in sleazy romance novels! Chuck out every non-serious, fun, and emotional book or reading material you have in your shelves and start collecting those leather-bound tome-like ones without any pictures. If the font is smaller than size 8, that’s a good sign you’re in the right direction. Burn everything else. Burn your magazines, children’s books, photo albums, closet, dog, house–everything. Burn your parents for starting you on Sesame Street instead of Plato.

2. Die a little. — Genius is measured in doses of personal misery, so do not give up reading even if simply going through page 3 of a treatise by some long-dead German philosopher makes you want to tear up and slash your wrists. You’ll get used to the loneliness of walking the sacred path to knowledge after a while. Losing friends is another good sign that your lifestyle is evolving from the slobbery to the scholarly. Do not live for today. Live for the future! History will prove you right even if the present vomits you out violently like too much tequila.

3. Send a clear signal that you are not part of this pathetic game of mediocrity. — There’s a logic that governs everyday life, which the masses in their mass consumerist hysteria are not able to perceive. But you do. You see the master puppet behind the veil of illusions they call “life.” In many ways, you are like Neo in The Matrix. Your eyes pierce through the deceptive simulations to unveil the code in green Chinese characters that fall randomly on the screen. But nothing is random–and you know that in your very heart and soul. There’s some secret meaning to this, usually encapsulated by a quote on Instagram if you search #instaquote. You have to post that shit when you find it to wake others up from their artificial dreaming state and launch the bloody revolution against the machines!

4. Be a political T-rex! — Yes! Like the apex predator of the Cretaceous period, you must devour everything in your path with maximum savagery. Begin your day with a rousing breakfast of Facebook and Twitter skirmishes about the country’s foreign policy, have a violent lunch of some fool’s misogynistic, sexist argument, and close it out with a gory dinner of CNN and BBC. By the end of the day, you’ll be shitting Vladimir Putin’s face in your toilet bowl.

5. Talk in codes. — Nobody understands you because you are Alan Turing reborn. Haruki Murakami with extra wasabi. Yoko Ono on steroids and the beating heart of Jaden Smith’s Twitter account. Plants vilify you in the chasm between the primate amygdala and reptilian metacarpals. Buttermilk splash in your eyes when the red dawn of the event horizon explodes like a gokkun glass on the floor. Space pizzas and gorilla tits. Pimple soup. Keanu Reeves. Exactly.

6. Go on an intellectual diet. — Put that nasty bag of Cheetos where it came from and start picking up brain food. But 100% organic greens are just the start of a dietary overhaul designed to build your brain muscles. The extra vitamins and nutrients you need cannot be found in the grocery store–hell no! Go to the nearest bookshop and start tearing out pages of books in the self-help and history sections. Stuff these fiber-rich pages in your mouth and proceed to swallow. Choking is a hazard but few are those honored to die for knowledge!

7. Watch art house or go home. — Who the fuck needs another Iron Man or Batman movie? Jesus! Every single one of these Justice League of Fantastic Avengers had dead parents who they need to avenge by using ridiculous powers from extraterrestrial beings or super high tech gizmo bullshit. Instead of watching these mind-numbing popcorn flicks, go see art films that discuss the true nature of life and of existence. Have you seen Synecdoche, New York by Charlie Kaufman? It’s about this play about the people making the play, where the play depicts the making of the play, and each play is played out ad infinitum. It’s like Playception. Imagine living your life without seeing this movie and deciphering its hidden meaning! You might as well kill yourself now if you don’t have a copy of this film because your cultural taste is as worthless as nipples on a superhero costume!

8. Don’t forget to smoke. — Every bookworm worth his salt knows that smoking is one of the sure signs of expanded brain capacity. You could almost say sticking a big, fat pipe of nicotine is the ticket to the exclusive knowledge-is-power club. So never forget to light it up lest people start to suspect you’re a mental wuss and a buffoon. Be sure to puff that shit when you’re writing dark haiku on Tumblr or just casually reading Elite Daily. The more cigarettes, the better. Stick some in your ears, too, to stop hearing your blithering moronic friends talk about fun things like music and side boobs.

9. Do some head exercises. — Finally, work your muscles out! We’re not talking about doing puzzles and crosswords–no, sir or ma’am! Those things are for kids. We’re talking about literal head exercises aimed at creating more space for your growing cranium. Follow these steps: (1) Stand next to a wall. (2) Put your hands firmly on your side. (3) Observe proper posture–do not slouch! (4) Breathe deeply for 3 minutes. (5) Knock your head against the wall repeatedly as hard as you can until your cranium cracks and your brain noodles spill onto the floor.

Someday I Want to Be a Burdensome Old Man

My recent string of sicknesses has renewed my commitment to living a long life. But the goal is not merely to lengthen my existence for the sake of it like a deluded hermit. See, there’s this image in my head that I just love: me sitting at a table surrounded by dozens and dozens of my children and grandchildren, all bearing a resemblance to me in varying degrees, all waiting to get my blessing for something, all waiting to say their polite pieces to the “godfather”–the head of the clan.

But it’s not even the power or the prestige I’m after. I’m really just aiming to be the biggest, wrinkliest, most annoying burden the whole family has to bear with in every single gathering.

I just want to shoot sharp disapproving looks at everyone. And I mean everyone. I wouldn’t care if you managed to snatch the top spot in the bar exams or got a supermodel to be your wife, you’ll get the same grouchy disapproving look from my face–the same exact look your suicidal, junkie cousin gets.

Oh I would have the time of my life, just wearing a patented steel frown like Robert De Niro and muttering horrific curses under my breath without stopping. Sometimes my poor children and grandchildren would be able to catch some words when they take my hand to kiss it or press it to their foreheads; memorable words like “moron” and “idiot” and “clown” or “wench.”

I’d be carrying a trusty wooden cane, so I could snappily hit the little ones on the butt if their horsing around gets within two meters of me. They’ll shriek and bawl for mommy and daddy, and mommy and daddy won’t get anything from me but my go-to advice to “Discipline your stupid child!”

Cane would also be handy when poking someone rather painfully in the kidneys if they block my view of the TV.

On the buffet table, I’d take scandalous amounts of everything and then make it a point to eat only about 7% of my plate, all the while complaining loudly about the taste and my false teeth, which would keep on falling into the soup bowl with a plop.

That would be nice. Spoiling everyone’s appetite before they’ve had their fill and just making the table generally awkward for the hapless, brave souls who happen to sit there. And then I’d be munching the food in my mouth in that irritating way old people process their food, and spitting some of it unceremoniously onto the plate or napkin for everyone to see.

Nobody would get any real positive encouragement or sound advice from me. I’d always be comparing them to some long-dead celebrity or famous person I knew or remember from the good old days when the world wasn’t overrun by “wimpy dumbasses (my favorite catch-all term).”

Of course my life would be the golden standard for everyone, and I would happily replace the majority of it with amazing tales of impossible feats you couldn’t possibly match. “I used to sell little goldfish in the streets until I had enough money to buy a luxury car” or “Once, I got lost in the woods for 5 months and I only ate earthworms to survive. When they found me, I was wrestling a wild boar to the ground, which I proceeded to gut alive with my teeth.”

I’d remember each and everyone’s name but I would see to it to switch it with another one just to get the message across that their existence doesn’t mean squat to me. “Oh you’re not Rachel? Who are you?” “Megan. Rachel died 7 years ago, pops.” “Oh really? Tsk. Everyone dies soon enough.”

And then of course I’d do ridiculous things when I’m in the middle of the crowd, like letting my trousers fall, or kicking the cute dog everybody loves, peeing on the bonsai, “accidentally” crashing against some kid’s artsy school project he’s been working on for weeks, sitting on the cat, tasting the cake’s icing and eating all the flowers before a picture has been taken, dropping an expensive vase (Oops!), and constantly spitting the stickiest balls of phlegm to the floor.

My family would hate me so much they would jokingly wish among themselves that I die a horrible death, but I would disappoint them every freakin’ year because I just won’t. I’d be there, wasting away, little by little until only skin and bones remain but nevertheless, I’d still be there. Still whispering insults about the adults and scaring the snot out of the little ones.

Personally, I think it’s a beautiful goal to set for myself. I better work on it now.

Imagine Tequila

Imagine tequila.

Imagine that shot glass filled to the brim with that golden liquid of sin

and the gleaming salt crystals around the rim. Ready to tickle your tongue

and wake up the beast inside you.

Imagine the thin slice of lime sitting atop that small mysterious throne,

its citric flavor anticipating to chase away

the bitterest memories.

Imagine the glass getting nearer and nearer

your nose.

Imagine the aroma…

That aroma…

That most unique of aromas…

Now imagine meatballs.

Meatballs shooting from your throat like cannonballs at 1000 feet per second,

violently splashing into the toilet bowl

or onto your poor friend’s crotch,

shrieking and cursing you like a madman.

He won’t talk to you for a week or two. Good job.

Imagine pasta escaping from your mouth and nostrils at the same time

at incredible speeds like racers sprinting to the finish line;

and then red sauce mixed with your stomach’s gastric acid

spilling onto the floor for some unfortunate soul to mop later.

Or imagine lettuce from your dinner last night.

Good golly! That stuff’s still in there?

Rice swimming in your unusually dense saliva,

Liquefied Pringles,

Fluid fish fillet,

Melted nachos,

Super soft and saturated cheese sticks.

Coke, that’s definitely Coke.

Of course it could be your bile.

And bits of pork and beef fibers that something in your belly shredded like those amazing cutting tools on 1-800 TV commercials.

The probability of regurgitated food getting stuck in between your teeth

all of a sudden increasing by 93%,

so you can enjoy the funky taste until you’re able to dislodge it in the bathroom

with extreme difficulty

and revolting consequences.

Imagine that person you’re trying to impress

bearing witness to the unholy work of the god of eternal vomit and puke

making beautiful, earth-shattering retching noises

over and over again

like dying in the most painful, inhumane way

bringing everyone from other tables to the scene

of such splendid, stinky terror

you’ll be having nightmares about forever.

Imagine the morning.

Oh, Jesus, the morning!

Imagine the trauma.

Imagine tequila.

This One Makes Perfect Sense

One day, I woke up and everything made sense.

It started when I stepped out of my room and had a little chat with my friend next door. I was going to the office much earlier than usual and he asked me why, what’s the reason for being up so early. I said jokingly, “Well, what else? So I could see my soulmate in the office and finally confess to her that I love her.” He looked at me as if he really believed what I said, so I told him, “The heck? Of course, I’m kidding!”

He said, “You shouldn’t. You should tell her for real.”

I said, “Hell, no. I mean, not now anyway.”

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “If not now, when?”

He sounded so out-of-character and made so much sense that I went out kind of bewildered. I checked my phone and saw that I received a text message from an unknown number. I didn’t want to open it because the phone had little power left. Problem is, I left my phone charger. Good thing there was this store that sold all sorts of chargers, so I bought one. The vendor recognized my face and said, “Sir, that’s the third charger you bought from me within two months.”

I said, “Yeah, I keep losing them or forgetting to bring them. But they’re cheap, so I just buy new ones for replacement.”

“That’s a bad habit to keep,” he said.

“Don’t worry. It’s 2015. Maybe something will change,” I said jokingly.

“2015 won’t change anything unless you do,” he said.

I was dumbfounded. That was the second time somebody made so much sense that day. But anyway, I got to the office and started doing my daily tasks. There was such a lot of work to do that day that my boss noticed that I had a hard time keeping up. He asked me, “Why do you do all this? Why don’t you delegate some to your team?”

I said jokingly–again–“Well, it’s the start of the year. I want to be extra good to people.” Then I winked.

He told me with a cold stare, “Don’t just be good to others. Be good to yourself, too.”

And that right there absolutely blew my mind for it was the third time that day that somebody made total sense. But it didn’t stop with my boss. I went to the cafeteria for lunch and ordered a lot of fatty stuff and sweets.

The cafeteria woman offered an advice, “Discipline is just choosing between what you want now and what you want most.”

At the meeting with my team someone threw a one-liner, “The struggle is part of the story.”

I passed by one of my officemate’s monitor and his wallpaper read, “Work hard in silence. Let success make the noise!”

Then I overheard a whispered conversation between my crush and her friend. She was sobbing while telling her, “What’s meant to be will always find a way.”

Sitting down at my desk again, confused beyond my wits at what’s happening and not knowing how to get back to work, the guy behind me poked my back and said, “Start by starting.”

I went on Facebook where somebody posted this quote: “Music makes the pain fade.”

So I scrambled for my earphones and fired up my playlist. Bob Dylan was singing, “Don’t criticize what you can’t understand.” He was singing about more things that made an awful lot of sense, so I just had to quickly put my earphones down.

Just then, an email came in from this girl from another team. She was enraged at everyone for failing to do some project. She was quite scary. On her signature it was written, “Sometimes, it takes balls to be a woman.”

My boss noticed that I was looking quite pale by then, so he smiled and said, “Why wake up stressing when waking up is a blessing?”

I ran.

I dashed out of the office, trying not to scream, and ran into the guard. He looked at my face and chuckling he said, “Life is better when you’re laughing.”

His hysterical laughter echoed around the hallway as I barely made it into the elevator going down.

Finally there was silence.

I was wiping the sweat off my forehead when the girl next to me joked with her pal about the elevator crashing.

Her friend blurted out, “Well, a hard fall means a high bounce!”

Ding! The elevator reached ground floor and I sprinted across the hall where overhead, a new sign had just been put up: “There is no one giant step that does it. It’s a lot of little steps.”

I ran and ran past strange signs that read, “Never look back. You’re not going that way.”

And “Always focus on how far you’ve come rather than how far you have left to go.”

And “Sometimes, following your heart means losing your mind.”

And “Deep down, you already know the truth.”

At the end of the lane, I almost crashed into this fountain. Panting, clutching my chest, I looked wildly around me and I was alone. I didn’t know why I had to run like a fool. “My boss must think I’m crazy,” I told myself. I slipped my phone out of my pocket to tell my boss that I’m all right—I just had a sudden tummy ache.

I opened the text message I received that morning from an unknown number.

It said, “If you ever find yourself in the wrong story, leave.”

Further Studies Required

In the news today, a speaker for the Land Transportation Office said they are pushing through with the plan to increase toll fares but that it would require further study. The public will remember that a similar bill to increase train fares had also gone through a number of further studies before everyone was told that it was definitely a go. Aside from toll fares, the government is also expected to announce that water and power bills are bound to significantly increase, though these will require further study. In related news, plans for updating automatic voting machines for the coming election are rolling along, although a Commission on Elections source is quick to say that this would require further study, and a further bidding in case the public wants a more trustworthy company to handle the next elections. Furthermore, further research is required to once and for all confirm the reliability of these machines, which were used in 2010 and 2013 after several further studies. Those further studies, of course, all happened without anybody ever understanding what really went on during those further studies, as is the case for every project ever to require further studies. A further study of this news piece reveals that it was written hurriedly and without any purpose in mind but to keep repeating the phrase ‘a further study.’ And a further study of your life reveals that you, in fact, didn’t study enough in high school and college, which is why you have such a shitty job. Further studies won’t get you anywhere now because it is too late though it’s funny that some people actually get paid more in the job market once they have acquired a certain number of further studies. A further reading in this matter is definitely unnecessary but you wouldn’t really do that because nobody has ever, in the history of man, taken “further reading” quite seriously. Further studies on the composition of the human brain suggest humans are averse to a complex barrage of stimulus such as further reading, further research, supplemental data, supplemental material, and further studies. But nevertheless, further study is needed to assess the value of this news bit for presently, it most certainly lacks sense though it has an abundance of further studies.

I Write This With Absolutely No Agenda.

Let me start by clarifying that I write this with absolutely no agenda, no hidden motives, no ulterior plan to advance myself or my interests. You know how other people would say one thing and actually mean another? Say, they’ll praise what you’re wearing while actually highlighting what displeases them about it, so your friends can see it clearly and snigger in their heads—that’s what this piece is not.

See, I stick to the truth like a hardened nose gum on a bed post. When I talk about things, I describe them objectively with a dogged tenacity to uphold positivism. There are no gray areas with me or any room for suggestions, allusions, and metaphorical expressions of the like. When I use figures of speech, such as in the opening sentence of this paragraph, I use them to aid elucidation and not hint on another latent meaning, which the reader should unlock in order to unravel the true purpose of the writing. I consider such a task terribly tedious and a tragic turn in literary culture. Though, I must say, I do not care at all about literature because literature is basically a socially exalted exercise in lying. In fact, I literally mean everything that I say and mean them in a very limited way with a clearly defined scope.

There’s no beating around the bush, ignoring the elephant in the room, or walking on eggshells with me. I don’t avoid the real subject at hand or try to deceive the audience by discussing misleadingly. Satire is not in my vocabulary—only science.

This is who I am, writing or speaking—even in nonverbal actions. When I engage in an activity, I do it just for the sake of doing it without trying to follow leaps of logic that would necessarily give me new angles and opportunities to criticize it in the larger scheme of things or from a fresh perspective. For example, when I drink coffee in Starbucks, I drink it for the sole purpose of digesting caffeine and enjoying the multiple ways sugar is used in the concoction. I never think of anything else regarding my purchase or the company that sold it to me.

This is precisely why, I believe, my friends appreciate my company because they can rely on me to convey information without bias. So if one of my friends asks me, “Does this dress make me look fat?” I tell them nonchalantly, “Yes, visually, that dress, brings attention to the roundness of your body and tricks the eye to make you seem even larger than you truly are.” That or “No, it does not.” But it makes no matter if he or she is my friend, an acquaintance or a total stranger. I treat everyone the same.

Unlike others, my Facebook posts are void of vagueness and are crisp in clarity. “Busy day in the office,” I’d post or “The boss spends around 4 hours every day watching YouTube.” True, my propensity to talk only in facts gets me in a bit of trouble quite regularly and encourages people to call me negative things like “an obnoxious socially incompetent know-it-all” or a “sociopath in the making” but it hasn’t stopped me from being who I am. To behave otherwise would be a betrayal of not just myself but the Truth.

For if a man only speaks in undeniable facts, then isn’t it true that he stops being a man? He becomes not just the symbol of Truth, but its very mouthpiece—and thus, Truth itself. Let me use another metaphor here to illustrate the point: isn’t the Word of God not only a means of divine expression but God Himself?

And from where I’m standing, I can see how people have miserably failed in walking the narrow but just path to total neutrality and impartiality. Everyone aside from me is double-tongued, two-faced, self-serving, and a liar through and through. Some have even so thoroughly gotten into the habit of misguiding others that they have effectively fooled themselves. But I do not judge their ultimate worth, only their capacity to be different from me.

Yes, I truly am convinced—no, I assert—that I am the Truth. No bullshit.

“Everything’s Gonna Be All Right.”

There was this woman in a motel who said I thought too much about everything. I don’t know how she could tell that just by looking at my face.

She said “Stop thinking. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

That kinda struck me, so from then on I carried that all the time and eagerly handed out the advice to everyone who seemed a bit too uptight.

I always said “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Like this one time, over bottles of beer, another girl told me about the uncertainty of her future.

I told her, “Well, don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

She said, “Except you don’t know that for sure.”

And I really didn’t know what to say to that.

She was kinda right.

But anyway, I moved on.

Every day I would wake up and start thinking about my credit card debt. And when I would think about my credit card debt, I would think about my job. And when I would ponder my job, I would ponder about aging. And when I wondered about aging, I’d wonder about dying. And when I would think about dying, I would think about the cost of dying. And when I’d consider money, I’d remember my credit card debt.

It’s fortunate that at some point my brain would stop itself and say,

“Forget it. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

It’s a motto I secretly repeat in my head whenever I encountered something dire.

“Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Like when this girl cruelly turned me down because I’m no George Clooney. She hasn’t had a boyfriend for so long, I truly believe she was waiting for George Clooney.

“F that,” I said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Or when I almost ended up broke because I bought too much beer for people I didn’t know in a club. See, I was trying to impress them because they were white.

When I saw the ridiculous bill I just laughed and said, “Ha! Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Or when my bag got snatched by a man on a speeding motorcycle on my way to the office.

I shouted at the motherfucker and said, “Fuck you! Merry Christmas! Everything’s gonna be all right!”

Or that time our pit bull bit my leg and mauled my arm when I stepped on its tail as I stumbled drunk toward the door.

That one hurt like a bitch but I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled, “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

The morning after I found out my bed was soaked in blood from those wounds but I didn’t even notice I was leaking because I was too wasted.

My mother was shrieking in horror, so I calmed her down and whispered, “Hush, mother. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Every single day I walked that compromised leg to and fro, worked that disfigured arm like it was nothing, wincing but smiling, cringing but enduring, stumbling but getting up.

People would look at me with quizzical expressions on their faces, I’d yell at them, “Bugger off! Everything’s gonna be all right!”

A week passed and the leg and the arm had grown the size of a tree trunk. Finally let my pride ease up a bit and took myself to the doctor. Doctor said infection’s seeped into the bone.

He said, “Sir, the infection’s seeped into the bone.”

I told that good doctor, “But doc, everything’s gonna be all right. Right?”

“Well, some things will be all right… but not everything.”

I was incredulous! I said, “But that can’t be right. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

He said, “Sir, there are maggots in your left humerus and tibia. I’ll have to saw them off.”

I said, “What?! You’re cutting off my arm and leg?”

He said, “Exactly, Sir. I’ll cut off the left if—you want everything to be all right.”

“But how can you be so calm telling me about hacking off my arm and leg? These are my goddamn arm and leg for Christ’s sake! They’ve been with me for 29 years!”

“It’s my job, Sir,” he told me. “I tell patients to calm down. And that everything’s gonna be all right.”

He was impossible! I told that good doctor, “Doc, what you intend to do is bad. Without my left arm and leg, not everything’s gonna be all right.”

He said with a smirk, “Actually, Sir, without your left arm and leg, all you’ll have are the ones on the right…

Then and only then will everything about you be all right.”

A Hard Man to Please

No, I am not impressed. Not in the slightest bit. I’m a hard man to please, you see? You can try your best showing off your fancy vacations in faraway destinations and wild drunken night-outs with awesome-looking people, but I am not impressed at all. You think you can get my seal of approval, oral or virtual in the form of a Facebook Like, just because you’re eating a juicy steak in an elite corner of the city I have never been to? You wish! You assume I like your taste in music, movies, or desserts? You presume too much! None of your humanitarian, environmental, or religious efforts make me feel one way or another; and no perfectly framed literary quote makes me wonder. I am not affected, fascinated or dazzled in any way shape or form by your romantic dinners with your partner or cheerful meet-ups with friends. I don’t feel a sliver of envy when you’re climbing mountains, riding zip lines, or scuba diving with dolphins. No eloquently put political opinion sparks my imagination, and all your witty one-liners land with a dull thud in my ears. Because I am the personification of indifference. The Buddha of lukewarm apathy. I am numb. Cold. Hard. To me, your money is as common as dried leaves on the street and your cars are as interesting as bricks off a torn building. You think I’m excited? I am unconcerned and undisturbed. Your hobbies put me in a stable mood of nonchalance incapable of producing any graspable emotion in my countenance. I casually view your activities like I do the pavement. What’s that? Denying that I’m impressed actually confirms that I’m impressed? Preposterous! Is this the same as when a person says he doesn’t care, he most certainly cares? Does that mean that my only recourse to express my uncaring attitude about your life is to stay silent about it forever? Well, that’s never going to be good enough for me! I demand to clarify my unenthusiastic, uninvolved disposition through a lengthy exposition of my neutral feelings about any matter whatsoever involving you. No, I am not impressed. Not in the slightest bit. I’m a hard man to please, you see?