I can't write without smoking a cigarette so before writing this first sentence I roved around the house and looked for one. I found a stick of Ray's Red Marlboros squeezed in one vacant slot of my brother's-in-law (brother-in-law's? Fuck that. I forget. Whatever.) library collection of DVDs. It looks like it came from someone's pocket who's ran a marathon race, the cig all scruffy and battered and creased and crooked with brown stains and tobacco shreds bunched up at one end. If the cig would talk it'd say, "For heaven's sake throw me in the trash can already." The lack of cigarettes is just one reason I can't write. Another is my laptop's fucked up so I'm bound to borrow my sister's Mac Book. While another is that I'm taking depressants to clear my liver of alcohol and prevent cirrhosis, which runs in the family.

I'm a health junkie, despite all counter evidence.

With no cigarettes, no laptop, and low energy, I'm depressed as hell. The last thing I'd like to do is overdose on caffeine and rev up my serotonin levels but that would require another swig on a bottle of brandy to smash me to sleep. Which is counterreactive to my liver therapy.

I am a health junkie I am a health junkie I am a health junkie.

I drank three cups of green tea today but I wolfed down a greasy Whooper burger and oil-saturated french fries from Burger King. What I really want is to be a vegetarian. No meat, no sugar, no dairy, no animal products and animal derivatives. But when you step out the door with a grumbling tummy, every street is infested with nothing but fast food chains. What I want and what the world offers are two different bananas. The simple truth is that no matter how you want to be a herbivore, everybody else in the world is a carnivore. Your family is a carnivore. Meat for breakfast, meat for lunch, meat for dinner. Your friends are carnivores and alcoholics. Every restaurant out there caters the carnivore population. If there's a vegetarian resto in the city, it's either too expensive or the food tastes like recycled toilet paper. There's no other choice. It's either you leapfrog into the horde of stretched mass suicides or be alone, live longer, and die miserably healthy.

I want to rid of all this shit and junk from my system but I'd need a support group, like the Philippine Veggie Association or the Everyday Happy Herbivore Club. Or I might just join my fellow cows and horses chewing on raw leaves in the fields.

Every day there are animals dying. They are not dying from old age, cancer, heart attacks, brain tumors, or Parkinson's Disease. They are dying under a butcher knife in slaughterhouses. They are dying choking on soda push pins floating in the sea. They are dying because the forests are bald. They are dying drowning at the North and South Pole because the ice have all melted. Even Santa Claus and his legion of furry elves have died drowning in ice water. They are dying because. They are dying because we magicked them to die with our deadly magic wands.

For the past few weeks the heat in the country reached its highest recorded temperature you can literally see people deep fried in their own liquefied body fat. Then for the past two days it rained like the sea was taking over the land. Newscasters bellow it's Global Warming in full throttle, rage and violence combined, punishing us toxin-generating motherfuckers. Us parasites of this giant cellular organism called Earth. If we want to cure the planet of this human-derived disease, we should just nuke all fossil fuel dependent vehicles in all spherical corners of the world. We should just wear rollerblades or rollerskates going to work or school. Or we could fire ourselves from catapults using strategic trajectory positions and pull out our parachute strings when landing on our destination. A Filipino invented a car run solely by water but it was suppressed because it threatened the global economy. The thing is, without oil, all countries will go berserk and the earth will glitter with exploding neutron bombs all the way from ex-planet Pluto. What this all boils down to is our decision as a species to choose between economy or ecology. This is life or death, people. Peace or war. Pepsi or Coke. (Oh shit, another Global Warming advocate.)

Cult films added to my favs, garnering six pink stars out of five. (Fuck you I want them pink, bugger off.) If you want to see an excellent film and not just random comatose inducing junk on the screen, go to IMDB's top 250 movies of all time, cover your eyes and point at the screen, then google the title along with the keywords "watch movie online".

I am a pirate. Ar.

The resolution sucks mothballs but who gives a shit. It's still a good movie.

The Silence of the Lambs is far less boring than the title implies. In the film, Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter is now imprisoned behind unbreakable glass and Clarice the youngish Jodie Foster consults him for advice on how to catch the serial killer Buffalo Bill. Lecter is the proficient psychoanalytic wizard who can read your personality profile simply by sniffing the vaginal wash (or dick wash) you used this morning. He earned an Academy Award in his brief appearance of about sixteen minutes in total. His laconic eloquence draws an impact that would stretch your consciousness to the alpha state where everything does not exist beyond your peripheral vision except for his mouth sputtering epiphanies on the screen. Heightened sense of perception, to put. There's nothing quite like this character who requires 101% of your attention. Arresting.

Leon, sometimes entitled as The Professional, is about a lonely professional hitman (Jean Reno) who inevitably adopts his next door neighbor Mathilda, the thirteen-year-old Natalie Portman, when her family was massacred by drug syndicates. Learning Leon is a professional assassin, Mathilda insists on making him teach her the skills to avenge the death of her little brother--she hates the rest of her dysfunctional family. Behind the blood and gore, the gunfires and carnage, the smoke and drugs, is a pederast's dream love story. The young girl falls in love with Leon along their How To Be An Assassin tutorial and ends up in sodomy and child pornography widening and bruising Natalie Portman's bloody asshole.

I'm kidding.

In One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, the younger Jack Nicholson eludes imprisonment by pretending he is a wacko fucko. As a result, he's thrown into a mental asylum with retards and numbnuts and birdbrains ranging from stuttering talkers to hysterical crybabies. Jack Nicholson undoubtedly looks like Batman's Joker with his upside-down checkmark eyebrows and sinister grin. If you think about Nicholson's character in other movies, like The Bucket List or The Departed, it shows a trend of how inflexible his character is. He's always that sick fuck possessed by the devil into implementing some diabolical plan. In this film though his mission is to disrupt the order of the asylum and teach them how to have a good time, like booze drinking, fucking, watching baseball, and breaking out the barbed fence to go fishing.

Funny how my brother-in-law says "barred wire" when he means barbed wire. Wahahaha. He keeps on repeating it it kills me every time.

The ending is so bizarre it's stuck to my head. Nicholson had to die a pillow death to retain order. Order snaps back after that, everybody back to their own solitary business, but he changed one wacko's life; he inspired him to escape the asylum, the same Indian chief-looking giant who pillow-suffocated him.

Word did you say?

« Prozac, My Drug-Named Anti-Drug | 2012 »