Domino has been visiting me every day for a week.
Domino is sweet.
Domino doesn't talk much.
Domino is sensitive to sound and texture.
Domino loves to be touched, caressed, snuggled.
Domino slept in my room last night.
We cuddled underneath my sheets, wrestled with each other, hugged.
Domino is a cat.
Domino is a she.
Domino is my ex-pet Stabby's sister.
Domino is spry and hyperactive.
Stabby is grim and sulky.
Another cat has invaded my life again.
This taking care of some puny tiger wannabe.
Tips me off balance.
I am Leon reluctantly adopting Mathilda Lando.
Domino, the persistent, devoted little bugger, she just wouldn't leave.
"Look," I tell Domino. "Go away. I'm too macho for you."
Domino just stares.
She purrs.
Licks me with her sandy tongue.
Rubs her fur against my skin.
I give her a spoonful of fishflesh.
Domino gobbles it all up and sprints back to rub me static electricity.

Five months ago Domino was the size of my palm.
Sister B let me choose between her and Stabby.
I chose Stabby.

Stabby.

I wanted to take Domino but Stabby was a snob.
Stabby didn't give a shit.
Stabby thinks she's some high class arrogant pampered superkitten.
Stabby wouldn't make too much of a noise.
Stabby was independent.
Stabby would leave me alone.
So I chose Stabby.
Now Stabby is gone.
Stabby didn't leave anything.
I cleaned everything out like cum on my bed.
Chucked Stabby out my life.
Good bye. Adios. Arrivederci forever.
But somewhere around my room there still is a strand of Stabby's fur.
A flake of Stabby's skin.
A scratch on my hiking pack.
Somewhere.
Stabby left a mark.

Now Domino is back to reclaim what is rightfully hers.
Me.
"Love me love me love me!" she says. Telepathically.
I don't want to.
I am to her who Stabby is to me.
"Leave me alone."
But really, animals transform me into someone else.
Already, Domino has transformed Kaira into someone else.

Kaira.

Kaira shreds pancake into a tiny saucer.
I say, "Don't."
I say, "Domino doesn't eat pancakes."
I say, "Domino only eats meat."
Kaira replies, "But this isn't for Domino."
Kaira says, "It's for me!"
Kaira puts it beside Domino's catfood.
Kaira fills a tiny bowl with water.
I say, "Domino already has her own water."
Kaira says, "But it's for me!"
She sets it next to her pancake and lies belly down on the floor.
Beside her Domino is drinking water.
Kaira eats her shredded pancake like a cat.
She thinks she's a cat.
She licks water from the other bowl and meows.
She says, "I'm a cat!"
I say, "So?"
I say, "Whatever."
I look away.

I gave Stabby away. (OHNO, not another entry about that kitten!XP) So I gave the persian critter to my niece with all the emotional baggage that goes along with it.

Think: worriments.

Think: routine checkups. Is she hungry? Thirsty? Does the air stink? No cat piss or cat crap smells? Has she soiled the litterbox? Just where the hell is that bloody cat?? What is she doing? Does she miss me? (Uukk.)

Think: furniture. What have you ruined today, Stabby?

Think: ingenuity.

Think: creativity.

Think: a new cat toy. Apparently Stabby gets bored easily (mana saken!XD) and takes all the toys I've made for her for granted. Boohooleah.

Think: a good night's sleep. But Stabby's up and frolicking the entire night I haven't a choice but to sleep on the couch downstairs until the third day when it hit me: Ohshitohdratsohshit. WTF am I doing outside? Stabby should be the one outside my room, damn it, not me!

So I kicked her butt out. That, with her litterbox by the door and her food and water a few paces away from it.XP

Think: emotional baggage. Why the hell am I investing my shit in this piece of shit?

Think: WHYYY???

So I kicked Stabby out of my life. The poor, poor adorably cute and cuddly and sweet kitten.

It was only after a night of bingeing that my hypersensitive perception detected a wave of almost undetectable buzz of tiny microscopic things.

I was lying on my bed, staring at Stabby, studying the pale grayness of her eyes, the crusty black mucus at their corners, the short white whiskers, the short sharp nails, those cute little paws, those sharp little teeth when she yawns, that stiff tail, those motes of dust peppered on every strand of fur on her back.

And then something happened.

The motes of dust on her fur moved. I leaned for a closer look and figured all them dust motes were fucking moving. All of them, two or three microscopic specks of dust on every single fucking strand, all of them were ALIIIIIIIIIVE!

Hoooomeeeefuckinggaaaaaaad, Stabby is a fucking PLANET!

The fleas, I mean, those disgusting tiny blood-sucking scruffy parasitic beasts are living off Stabby!

That's the real deal, why I gave her away. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Stabby taught me lots, besides. For one, I cried the night I gave her away. The poor thing. (Homyshit, I cried, fuck you, I'm a wuss! Bugger off!XP)

I've never cried for any living breathing being before. (But I do cry for books and classical violin concertos and films!:p) But no, not for a real carbon-based bipedal or quadruped creature. No, I haven't any real heart for anybody.

And Stabby changed all that. SNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFF and snot.

And no, I am never ever going to get another pet in my entire life. No. Ever.

Now I somewhat feel what my bestfriend somewhat told me about her baby being the source of her somewhat happiness, despite being homebound and a slave to a little stinkpot human being who eats away 80% of her waking life.

No, I will never be a mother.XP (Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of bloody fucking babies.)

Perhaps I am merely overwhelmed by this, this emotion of motherly crappery.XP

I just don't get it. I mean, what the fuck?

...

I miss Stabby.

I hate cats. I hate dumb animals and dumb babies and all the responsibility wrapped and ribboned nicely around them.

Well, fuck. I don't know what to do with my pet kitten Stabby. I wanted to stab her over and over, pierce a barbecue stick from her mouth to her asscrack, and make meself a nice and juicy kitten patty plus ketchup and mayonnaise and lettuce and a slice of tomato and cucumber (Pickles, damnit, peeeeeeeeeekals!) in a towering delicious kittenmeat sandwich. If Stabby's going to die, I rather want her dead with purpose.:p

But she's just soooooooo fucking adorable fuck I think I'm smothering her with too much love and affection. Har.

Once in Biology class, we were discussing about the invention and evolution of sex. The professor with the gray wiry hair snapped his finger at me and said, "You." We were talking about male animals being hunters and gatherers, while female animals as the fountainhead of love and warmth and affection and comfort and such motherly bullshit. "You," he said. He has a giant fucking mole the size of a planet at the very pointed tip of his chin. "I assume you have maternal instincts?" I shook my head. My idiot seatmates laughed. "What?" Giant Fucking Mole said, "You don't have maternal instincts?" My stupid professor couldn't quite understand the universal meaning of shaking my head left and right so I said: "No." Everybody laughed, all my one-hundred-something classmates, they giggled and snickered. Giant Fucking Mole repeated, "Are you sure you don't have any maternal instinct inside you, not one single tiny bit?" I shook my head at the words instinct and bit. "Well then," he said. "That's odd." I say he was quite embarrassed. Ninja kick to your giant planetary mole, professor! Muharhar.XD

I've always thought I'm a pompous chauvinistic egobloated career woman, a she-male, a man-wanna-be.

Being a girl sucks. All the girls I've known suck. (Except for Angeli and Ruth Buttcrack, who are as pompous and chauvinistic and egocentered as meself.:p)

But now, I've proven myself WRONG.

Maybe I've always wanted to be a pussy mommah? Har, bastos! That doesn't sound right.XD Mommy cat, that.

I was supposed to name my kitten Nipples, but thought I already used that name for Kim's dog in my short story Gaysha. Then I thought of naming her after Nibbler, Leela's pet alien triclops (the third eye at the top of his head :p) in the cartoon series Futurama, but chucked it out, that being unoriginal and plagiaristic. Besides, might even karate-wrestle with its copyright infringement thingamaboogershitty laws.

Stabby, my love and baby and cuddly shedizzle wizzle.XD Hoooooofuck, why does she have to be so fucking ADOOOOOOHRABLE??

I. Just. Can't. Kill. Her.

The past week I've spent an average of twenty-four hours a day with Stabby. She loves to play with marbles, strings, and crumpled paper. Her favorite toy is the bloody Q-tip. (Bloody because it's the Q-tip I used to swab the dried natal blood out her ears.) For the next couple of months I'm going to train her how to crap and piss in the john.:p

Every time I whip out my five-foot shined and polished bazooka and aim it at her, I just couldn't do it. She's just too cute. Her cuteness is the reason for her existence. Without her cuteness she would not exist.

I'm making a new list of gifts you people can give me!XD

1. one-liter water bottle that can be chained to a karab (the hook thingamajiggy for mountain climbing)
2. cat toys!:p
3. thick black socks (Socks, how pragmatic. Harhar.XD)
4. ground sheet
5. The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy DVD (torrent downloads take forever plus one year :p (Sidenote: What is infinity + 1? Is it still infinity? If it's infinity, would infinity + 1 be any different from infinity?))
6. one rim of Marlboro Menthols
7. a bookshelf I can assemble myself (Hawhawhaw.XD)
8. a Nokia 5070 battery (My Supernova phone was stolen (Sucks to the one who gave to me who happens to have taken it from Globe for free. Sucks to Globe, to put, you capitalist motherfucker! Teehihi.XD) so I have to use my old rotten brick phone.)
9. green tea :p
10. titanium spork

That's it.

I'm celebrating my birthday in Zambales!:p Free food! Free booze! Come one, come all! May bundok at may falls at may dagat! You can nosedive from the falls, roll down the mountain, and drown in the sea. Excited na ako. Hihi.XD Let's celebrate my existence by poisoning ourselves with teh-KILL-lah.:D Siyempre birthday ko, hindi pwedeng Ginebra Gin lang.:p

Faaaack, I'm stinking OLD. Grarrrrr.

I have always been a dog person. One time I've been a fish person, then a hamster person, a hermit crab person, and a turtle person. I have also been a rat person.:P What is this animal person really? What if an animal has a pet person (like that in Futurama where an anthropomorphic cat has a feline man for a pet)? Does that make him a person animal? Blahr.

Joey gave me a persian kitten for me birthday!XD Joey is Iggy's owner, the persian cat I borrowed a few weeks ago (Iggy, not the owner.XP). And the persian kitten's Iggy's daughter and sister, that being: Iggy raping and impregnating his own mother. Ergo, Iggy is my kitten's father and brother, and Iggy's mother is my kitten's mother and grandmother.XD Hoooooooooo da incest! Remember when I told you (that's you, medear bloggy woggy. Teeeeh.XD) if there's anywhere an animal belongs to it's in: (1) the zoo, (2) the wild, or, (3) your fridge? (Dear bloggy has a fridge, aye!:P) It's not that I took this persian kitten with my own volition, mind. Someone gave it to me. It's not my fault I have this beastly adorable little thing--it's like getting pregnant accidentally.

Hence, I am now a mother. A mother of a nameless persian kitten of about three weeks old. Her head and back's covered with black lush fur, with white undersides and a stripe of white down the center of her face.

My persian kitty, I named her: Stabby. Heehee.XD

Woohoooooot! No classes for one full week because of swine flu! Yay for H1N1!XD Do the moonwalk with me!

And. I have CHESS for PE! Huzzaaaaaaahness!XD

My first major hike last weekend at Mt. Tarak, Bataan.:P Seven effing hours of hiking to camp one--we haven't reached the summit due to water shortage--naubos namin yung tubig sa alak! Hakhakhak.XD

Mt. Tarak is the prettiest mountain I've hiked so far. (It's my fav bundok for now.:P) Its flora and fauna is as diverse as those of Mt. Makiling. Tarak soil is rich and fat and fertile whose color ranges from ochre to crappy brown and bloody red. Treading up it felt like non-philippinish--it's like you're vaguely in Korea or something.XP It's got bigass balete trees and lots of them, tall and fat ones thick as ten people touching fingertip to fingertip, all them trees gnarled and twisted and contorted in a horrifying and majestic and fairylandly way.

There's just this one deep fucking ditch I almost fell into. At the bottom of it is a slanted stream with rocks and boulders with those sharp edges used for making spears. We rested for a bit at the top of the ditch before rock-climbing downnit when a bee stung Mr. Perfect's nape. Mr. Perfect screamed and panicked, hands flailing every where to ward the fucking bee off when he slipped and collided towards me. Like a billiard ball transferring its spin and velocity to another ball at rest, the bee-stung Mr. Perfect crashed into me and I slipped and almost died falling into the ditch.

Most tragic part is, I survived.

When I say I've had a website since I was 17, it's not like I don't have a life. It's not like I am a full-time geekfreak with black-framed eyeglasses and skin problems.

And yet I do.

I confess: I am a geek. But you already know that. I'm the sort of geek who knows HTML, CSS, Javascript, Web 2.0, Photoshop, Literature, Classical Latin, Science Fiction, Physics, Calculus, and a bit of everything else.

I have this little cubbyhole in cyberspace where I stalk fabricated pretentious personalities and feed off other people's thoughts.

Outside this world I have little of a life: books, alcohol, friends, and mountains.

I tried to complicate my life last week by adopting a persian cat. His name is Iggy, with fur black as car tires and white as toilet paper, the two blending into a pattern of a cow's hide. This cat I adopted for a day, he dug his mighty sharpened claw into the burn scar on my left arm.

It hurt like a bitch. That tiny bleeding hole, it spouted blood ink, produced abstract blood art on my skin which caked and crusted and flaked off.

He should've punctured and scratched me with all his twenty claws and painted abstract blood art all over my body. But Iggy being a lazy yawning bum, he just leaped into my bed and stretched and sharpened his claws on my sheets. Sharpened his claws and yawned. Yawned and chased his tail in a circle. Chased his tail and sat. Sat and yawned again. Yawned and closed his eyes and slept for the rest of the day.

To all cat lovers out there, owning a cat is like having a white elephant. An albino elephant. A rarity. A gift from a royal asswipe. A giant dick-faced animal spared from work and consumes food and space and produces impressive farts and giant cakes of crap. All you lonely people don't need a cat. A cat is like a pill, a cure for the symptom but not the cause. To cure your loneliness, create a website like this, spin an arrogantly intellectual character like myself, and hook up with a fuckbuddy online. Or go out and plant ferns. Build a kite and get electrocuted. Subscribe to a religion and pretend to believe in God. Teach greasy street kids how to overthrow the government and rebel against the elite.

Do something else besides adopting a cat. It's a responsibility you never needed, don't need, and never will. If you have rats, go buy pellets of rat poison instead. Cos if there's anywhere cats belong, it's in a Chowking's siopao meal.

For a moment Iggy slept there in his spread-eagle position, displaying his neck, four armpits, and stubby little catdick. This bed, my bed, he's claimed it a property of his own. The way he's spread himself to occupy the maximum space available, he's gone way beyond making himself at home.

I forced myself to unconditionally love Iggy without regret or wanting anything in return. I petted him. I stroked his pate, his cheeks, his underbelly, his nipples.

What I really needed was some reaction, a tiny purr, a lick on my fingers, or a knowing look into my eyes.

And yet he didn't.

He just lay there snoozing or squinting, not giving a fuck to anything else.

That afternoon, all I received was static electricity from stroking his fur, which shed off on my bed, spread on my mattress, on my blanket, my pillows, my clothes, my floor. And by the end of the day my room was a haystack of cat hair.

I tried to commit myself but it didn't work out.

Iggy, my unrequited love and one-day stand.

My summer days are an endless battle between boredom and silence, only to be disrupted by internet geekship, reading books, getting drunk, and climbing mountains.

These little commitments that I have--my affair with the internet, my oral sex with books, anal sex with alcohol, and orgy with mountains--is getting a way tad monotonous and stupefyingly boring. All this sex replayed frontside and backside every week sizzles out the passion.

In another attempt for commitment, I tried out in UP Dragonboat Team.

It isn't like I am outgoing, that I am a thrill-seeking adventurous phony extrovert ready to talk to anybody anytime anywhere and assume I am exploding with abundant vibrant energy. If there's anything I hate, it's people. And it's people without sense of humor. If there isn't anybody to ridicule and humiliate everybody else with, I simply flop out. My energy reserves go kiblitz and melt into the floor towards the center of the earth. By the end of it I'm as friendly as a houseplant. It's not like I haven't a molecule of self-confidence in me to taunt and flout them all solo flight. It's just that I can't mingle and connect with people I don't know squat about. All this sneering and jeering which I'm incredibly good at, I'd need to have a sidekick. A compadre. Someone to laugh at my every sick joke and agree with my every stupid opinion. Someone very much like a dog. To which comes in Bernard.

Bernard is a huge polar bear of chinese decent with his fat flapping like human hide worn over his own skin. He wears eyeglasses with square frames the shape of glass plates placed under a microscope. His nose reminds me of a savage hawk and his teeth are tiny yellow buildings competing for gum real estate in his mouth. Bear-nard's wearing a white sleeveless which exposes the marshmallowy fat right below his armpits. At first impression you'd think he's some chinese emigrant selling textile in Divisoria. But behind all those fat and sweaty loose outfit, he was supposed to be a doctor. That is, until he dropped out of UP Medicine. How he'd come here is he's bored bumming and staring at walls and floorboards back home. To break his pathetic little domestic routine, he's tried out for the dragonboat team one chance. To keep his fat from depositing and turning him into a giant man-shaped quavering gelatin. To have a taste of what's it like to belong to a group of sun-tanned, scary muscular people with arms, chest, and shoulders blown up to Johnny Bravo proportions. To get a glimpse of what's it like to be macho. And hot. And have girls slaver at the sight of his bicep.

Where it's at is behind CCP at those waters that stink of sewers and garbage. Manila Bay is replete with busy microorganisms and phytoplankton and bacteria you wouldn't want splashed in your mouth or eye. The water is so filthy you can dip you're hand and won't see any of it. In this neglected docking port, urban dwellers have discharged their disgusting shit and sewage and killed the water along with its own universe of marine life. Just dipping in this muck for ten minutes could grant you ear infection, dysentery, typhoid fever, viral and bacterial gastroenteritis, and hepatitis A, all these from the colon bacillus which came from the insides of our assholes.

The way we've shit all this bacteria into the sea, they've gained consciousness and are searching for their way home--back into us through our orifices. Their sweet little microscopic revenge.

At five in the morning, you can barely make out the silhouette of the urban landscape patterned out of cubed walls and glass. Far away they're like paper cutouts folded and lopsided and painted the grayest of gray to look real. Docked and anchored at the garbage-filled bedrock are the boats and ships for domestic trade still sleeping by the port. All these are clothed with a thick fabric of smog, the way you'd wake up and open the windows one morning and realize your house relocated into the heart of subterranean factories girdled with traffic, all of them coughing out thick black smoke.

It's this depressing snapshot of Manila Bay that made me miss my oxygen and my green forests and my mountains and my alcohol and my monkey friends getting drunk with me up there. How these two activities are different are two parallel universes apart. But the more I imbibed in those smells and sights the more I missed my mountains.

How contrite, two-timing hiking with rowing--it's like having sex with your paramour while thinking of your distant lover just to get it over with.

This is getting pretty long I better shut it.XP

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