The Thrill of the Asses: Assholes vs Jackasses

I think there are two types of guys who can rock a girl’s world. First, there’s the Assholes of this world. They have the fucking power to make girls their "doormats" when, as far as justice is concerned, it's the faces of these guys that deserve a good stomping. Yes, I’m talking from experience.

You only get to see them once in a while; just on those days when it is more convenient for them than for you. They subtly let you work around their schedule. They show you a good time, sweep you off your feet, and promise to call but never do. When they do call, they often give you a vague explanation, if there’s even any. You put on your best shoes and go giddy as you both paint the town red only a few times, and yet you remember it for a lifetime. And when they feel that the wheels of your poor, hoping heart have shifted dramatically and you start to show the slightest indication of falling in love (or you emit some girlfriend vibes they begin to sense), they go cold turkey as you turn mother hen.

They treat you terribly. You wonder what went wrong. He gives you back-to-back rain checks while you start defending him to your friends. This could go on for months, yet you still want the *sshole. With all the things I have learned in the past years, I wonder what it is that makes them such nice girl magnets.

Is it because some women like the thrill of the chase as much as the chill of the case? Is it because some women unconsciously enjoy being treated like a doormat? Or is it because we want that sense of uncertainty...the rush that comes with living on the edge? We love to relive the magic that comes with affairs to remember—the cold nights, the red wine, and the deep, dark secrets whispered on nights that happened once but echoed for eternity.

These are the guys who can rock your world and your boat silly. They rock you once and leave you shaken, wanting to hit your head on a rock or down yourself with vodka on the rocks. And the sad part is that you never, ever learn until you have hit rock-bottom.


The second type of guy who can rock a girl’s world is the jackass—the nice guy with a hint of flair. Guys like this are the Ted Mosbys of this world. While some are not as creative and downright romantic as Ted Mosby of How I Met Your Mother, they are the ones who are constant: dense but constant, patient, and subtle. Despite the silent protests, they will try to do the requests of girls who fall on the Hot-Crazy Scale, as explained by Barney Stinson. At first, you might think that they’re doing it because they are too nice to complain, but in the process, they help you change for the better without you even knowing it.

There’s that sense of magic in how they seem to fit perfectly in your life, which makes everyone—including your family—connive to make you realize what a perfect couple you’d make. You love the excitement that comes with the fact that you don’t always know how in the world they were able to coax you into doing things you don’t normally do. They’re the kind you can introduce to your parents, knowing that your Mom would invite him again for dinner; the kind you can introduce to your friends, knowing he’d survive a round of drinking spree and not-so-subtle interrogation; and the kind who can screw your brains out in bed—a fact that you wouldn’t buy easily until you’ve had the first taste test.

This is the kind of guy who can not only rock your world but can shake you hard enough to rearrange your mindset.

Now, it’s up to you which one to choose to be insanely in love with—the Asshole or the Jackass. I have realized that love is, in fact, a decision. Remember what I wrote in before, when I questioned if it’s really love if you say goodbye without leaving, and decided that we have no control over who to love? I was so young back then, and so wrong. Falling in love at 23 seems so juvenile when I compare it to my present situation and point-of-view.

Now, I’m not saying that the relationships of young people are a joke, so spare me the false scrutiny. What I’m trying to say is, as you grow older, your perception of things changes. At 23, I thought that love was simply an emotion that you couldn’t define or control. But now, at 25, regardless of who you choose—whether you return to the Asshole who keeps hurting you or run to the one who will give you not just love but also the respect you deserve—love is still a decision to make. Even if you say you can’t control it, you always have a choice. It’s still your decision if you want to pursue something vague.

I’ve learned that love is a decision.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

are you kidding?! who wants to grow up?! *roflmao*

No holds barred..Ask me if you dare..

You've invented a time portal that allows you to observe only one day in history. Which day would you observe?

tough one.. but since vanity is one of my flaws, the day I am crawling out of my mother's womb so I could cheer myself into kicking my way out of it. Yes, I am a breech baby, but not a footling. LOL

No holds barred..Ask me if you dare..

Food, glorious food! Name one snack or other food that you would consider your "guilty pleasure".

I will reiterate it again and again. Pleasure IS pleasure, no need to be guilty of it!! LOL

and.. food, like sex, is one of the two greatest pleasures in the world, hence I love food and sex. ^_^

to answer your question, I enjoy all kinds of food, nothing specific pops in my head right now.

No holds barred..Ask me if you dare..

Do you play any video games? If so, what exactly?

I'm an avid fan of Diablo and Resident Evil. I love survival horror games. ^_^

No holds barred..Ask me if you dare..

When I quoted an excerpt from Bedroom Blog By Veronica, I meant it.

"Whenever I think of having a boyfriend, I dream of having someone I can afford to be weak to, someone who’s strong enough for both of us, so that I can be weak even for just a while, put down my armor and just let go. I want someone who won’t change, from the time he met me till the time we die—that he’d always care. I want someone consistent. I want someone who’ll show me that love doesn’t always mean waiting in vain. I want someone witty because I want us to laugh all the time. I'd meet that someone someday and I’ll be so happy I wouldn’t remember all the hurt I’ve been through lately. Because love finds the person, not otherwise."

When I received the news of my father passing away, ITT Guy was there for me. He hugged me and held me in his arms that day. He listened to me blab and yap about my frustrations and disappointments to my own family. I let some skeletons in my closet out for him to see, I hung my dirty laundry in front of him; however, I still wasn't able to show him how weak I can become. Maybe because he's not my boyfriend, or maybe because I just don't want to appear vulnerable to him. Maybe I'm still not ready to collapse the walls I built around myself altogether.

When my Tita died, my then boyfriend told me to come back here in the US as soon as we bury her body. When I told him about how our relatives were harassing us and how my dad got almost stabbed by his brother-in-law, my ex's reaction was, he has his own problems to deal with. I am not a typical lass. I yap and blab just to get things out of my system, and then after that I'm okay. I don't demand much from my boyfriend other than a shoulder to cry to whenever I get too overwhelmed by emotions, and an ear to listen to me, I don't even give a shit if all I said will enter one ear and exit to the other.

When I had my car accident, my bf that time looked like he doesn't care. He didn't even check on me. I have to be strong for myself. My mum was more concern about the car insurance premium going up and the ER and paramedic fee. ITT Guy, visited me when I got hospitalised last summer. He was texting me the whole time asking me how I was. He even offered me ridiculous proposals to help me out with my hospital bills/health insurance coverage which I had to turn down.

Maybe the fact that he's not my boyfriend helps, since I don't have to expect much from him, I won't get too upset when he won't be able to deliver my demands. Perhaps this kind of set-up is better, and I won't have to worry about fidelity even. Plus, I don't think he's the one I'm looking for, because all the hurt I felt is still here, it didn't go away.

Requiescat In Pace?

'Twas Saturday morning, PST, when I got the phone call from my elder bro. Our dad passed away after a day or two in diabetic coma. My first thought was concern for my elder bro because he was in shock and he kept on crying. After all those years of verbal and physical abuse we got from our dad, not a single thread of fondness was left in my proverbial heart for him.

After some pondering, I realised what a cold-hearted bitch I was. I haven't talked to my dad for quite some time now, maybe almost a year even. He didn't know I got into a car accident last year, and the last thing I told him was I don't give a damn about him anymore. I chose not to talk to him because he had this tendency to suck other people into misery. I even ranted about it a week or so ago.

I feel bad for myself. Until this very moment, I chose to be selfish.

Lucky Bastard

"I like men who can express their love like this and still be as sincere after a long boring time..." - JollyRancher

According to JollyRancher, this poignant writing was written by Russel Brand, a British comedian (a favorite of mine, I might add) who starred in Get It On the Greek opposite another favorite comedian, Jonah Hill.

"25 RULES FOR WOMEN (BY MEN)"

     

1.     SportsDesk starts at 11:00 PM and runs an hour. This is a great time to pay bills, put laundry in the dryer or talk to your sister.

2.     Two hot dogs and a beer at a hockey game do, in fact, constitute going out to dinner.

3.     Unlike you, we essentially want to dress just exactly like all our friends.  Thus, you need not go much further than the Gap, Zellers or the local Walmart store.

4.     If we see you in the morning and at night, why call us at work?

5.     Butthead is the smart one.

6.     Is it too much to ask to have the bra match the underwear?

7.     You probably don't want to know what we're thinking about.

8.     Silence does not need to be filled with discussions about "us" and "the relationship".

9.     Things you can help with: the Sunday crossword, yard work, the dishes, cleaning, and grocery shopping.

10.    Things you should let us do alone: figuring out where we are, watching anything on TBS, playing cards, smoking cigars and picking out the beer.

11.    Socks never constitute a gift.

12.    Department stores and malls were designed so that when you want to look at bed linen, shower curtains or handbags, there are always some speakers, tires or sporting equipment nearby.

13.    We don't know anything about handbags.  Don't even ask.

14.    We did water the plants.  They died anyway.  Nobody knows why this happens.

15.    Even if you think he's cute, George Clooney can't act.

16.    Of course, neither can Pamela Anderson, but she had the good sense to do "Baywatch" rather than "ER."

17.    Curley is the bald one.

18.    Compromise does not mean that we abandon our position in favor of yours.

19.    Sports Illustrated is a better magazine than Cosmopolitan. Just accept that.

20.    It's in neither your interest nor ours to take the Quiz together.

21.    Unless you are willing to follow the careers of Mo Vaughn, Cal Ripken, David Robinson,Mats Sundin, Michael Jordan, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Chris Farley, don't expect us to know what Helen Gurley Brown, Hilary Clinton, Naomi Wolf or your mother are up to.

22.    Sex on a weeknight is generally welcome. Three hours of post-coital conversation is not.

23.    Dinner out is a pretty good birthday present. Two tickets to a hockey game are even better.

24.    No, you can't have the remote control.

25.    If you must take us with you into Victoria's Secret, never, ever leave us alone.  All the old fat ladies make mean faces at us and only add to our discomfort.

In Tennis, Love is Zero:

An Excerpt from Bedroom Blog by Veronica

“Sam, have I ever told you why I took Journalism?” I asked.
“Because you like to write?”
“No, because I’ve always been bad with numbers,” I answered. “I hate Mathematics and I never understood fractions, algebra, trigonometry, and all that dizzying stuff.”
“Okay, so what’s that got to do with this?
I sighed.
“When I fall in love, it’s either I give my whole heart or I don’t give it at all,” I answered. “Because I can’t love in fractions.”

Quirino Hostage Drama Survivor's Accounts on What Happened on that Fateful Day

Mr. Mendoza was already upset even before he saw on television what the policemen did to his brother. The other tourists who remained inside the bus were complaining. Wei Ji Jiang wanted to go to the bathroom. Dao Chi Yu was hungry and the rest were just groaning and whining like they have forgotten that our lives rest in Mr. Mendoza's hands. The hostage taker, as you know him was really nice. He treated us okay and even let the elders and the children leave the bus. He said your policemen treated him unfairly. He was a policeman too and was accused of doing something he had no knowledge of. But your government didn't listen so he used us to get everyone's attention. Things would have never turned for the worst if he didn't see how his family was dragged out of their house and taken into custody. He was watching the news all the time as we huddled around each other behind the bus. He shouted some words in your language then started shooting in the air. A girl about my age started screaming. Mr. Mendoza demanded her to stop but she didn't understand English. God, he had to slash her neck with a knife just to put her to rest. Her boyfriend who tried to hit him was shot in the head. Tension was rising. You can see in his face how scared and confused he was. The bus driver ran away leaving him alone with strangers from a distant land. I can see him walking across the aisle, sometimes pointing his machine gun to one of the tourists. But he tried his best not to hurt us, especially those who really cooperate. I guess its in your nature not to inflict pain on others unless it was necessary. I remember him saying that he will free us before sundown and implored us to forget everything when we return home. But his words don't matter now. The policemen were trying to force their way in, while we all lied down to shield ourselves from bullets. Mister Mendoza blindly shoots at his enemies which I think kept them from rescuing us. I hear sobs under the chairs. Some were even shouting the names of their loved ones even when the air merely eat their words. Kevin Tang tried to escape when the glass door was was shattered, but one shot and he slumped on the floor with blood gushing from his mouth. Heavy rain pitter-pattered on the rooftop. In old Chinese saying, it means an end to a struggle. Finally, somebody was able to open the escape hatch at the back of the bus. Freedom. But I knew Mister Mendoza was still alive. I knew he was just waiting for a chance to strike back at his enemies. So I told those around me not to escape. Let the authorities come for us instead. Then there was gunfire. He was firing at his enemies with a machine gun. Those who were at the escape hatch fled abandoning us once again. It's like a nightmare with no end and to wake up means a certain death. Then somebody from outside the bus threw a canister. It forced out a black smoke that is so painful to the eyes and putrid smelling to the nose. People started screaming. We cannot breathe. Some ran in front of the bus but Mister Mendoza warned them of stray bullets. It was too late. One was hit on the head, the other was hit on the shoulders. Bullets were now flying. Its like the authorities thought we were all dead. Mister Mendoza finally admits his mistake and said sorry to everyone, dead or alive. He then ran towards the front of the bus where he would meet his maker. As he passed by my chair with bullets whistling overhead, I clutched my hand on the velvet curtain and wrapped it around my face. All I could think of was to stay alive - for my child who is waiting for me back in Xinjang.

I know I will survive, I will come home.

Bang Lu Min Survivor, Quirino Bloodbath

"On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning" by Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harajuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.


Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.


Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.


But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.


"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.


"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"


"Not really."


"Your favorite type, then?"


"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."


"Strange."


"Yeah. Strange."


"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"


"Nah. Just passed her on the street."


She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.


Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.


After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.


Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.


Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.


How can I approach her? What should I say?


"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"


Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.


"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"


No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?


Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."


No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.


We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.


I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.


Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.


Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"


Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.


One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.


"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."


"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."


They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.


As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?


And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"


"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."


And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.


The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.


One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.


They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.


Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.


One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:


She is the 100% perfect girl for me.


He is the 100% perfect boy for me.


But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.


A sad story, don't you think?



Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

My daughter’s letter to the man she will love someday by Cathy Babao-Guballa

RELATIONSHIPS ARE always a difficult terrain to navigate.

As a woman, you spend hours pondering—alone or with your girl friends—the intricacies of the human heart. You always hope and pray that the next generation will get it better than you did.

Below is a letter I found in my daughter's website (I have her permission to share this). She wrote it to "the man I will someday love."

I was expecting to read a gushing, romantic, idealistic tome. I was humbled instead by her sentiments. It's filled with sensible expectations. I pray that this will make every girl believe that hope does spring eternal, and even if your heart has been broken a few times, you can always put the pieces back together, and make it right the next time around.

Take your time. Don't rush and don't just "settle." If it's part of His plan, God's best awaits you out there.



Letter To The Man I Know Exists



Dear You,

I will admit that sometimes I really do wonder if you exist. There is a part of every little girl's heart that envisions her prince charming. At age three, it is usually of a man who can save her from the wrath of an evil stepmother, wake her from eternal slumber or give her that true love's kiss.

In elementary school, he becomes the boy with the least cooties, the one who's willing to cross the playground to share his Oreos even if it makes him a target for the week of all the other boys.

Come high school, it's that boy you stand with at prom, who your father stared down at the door, who provided you with an experience complete with photos you will cringe at a decade later, a corsage that yellows in the refrigerator, and a faded memory of a night that seemed almost too magical to be real.

Nineteen years into this life, however, and still unwilling to give my heart away, I am still that same little girl who hopes for her prince charming. And although I wonder why it has taken you this long to sweep me off my feet and whisk me off to your palace on horseback, I know that it is probably because meeting you will be better than any fairytale I could've read as a kid.

A couple of heartbreaks and a few years wiser though, I will admit that there are times when I question your existence. Because I have yet to meet the guy who makes me hear songs like "All My Life" or "A Whole New World" in my head when I see him does not mean I don't hope that it'll ever happen.

I may already know you or may still meet you someday—something I leave completely up to God because I'm pretty sure our story will be epic.

However, I can't promise you that I'd make the world's most perfect princess. In fact I'll probably keep you on your toes and amuse you with my eccentricities—there are a lot of them. I'll probably steal a bunch of your T-shirts and turn them into shirt dresses, or drive you slightly mad with my obsessive compulsivity and my need to fix your collar constantly.

I can promise to be your best friend however—that person you can rant to after a rough day, the hand you can hold when you get sad, or the person you can text when situations get awkward.

I'll probably mess up your hair sometimes and hug you for too long, but that'll only be because I absolutely adore you. I'll bury my head in your shoulder during scary movies and make you feel like superman when you kill those flying cockroaches that really shouldn't exist.

I'll cook your favorite food on your birthday and try my best to make friends with your mom.

I'll respect your nights-out with the boys and make you seem like the perfect guy to my barkada. I'll watch basketball or soccer games with you, and not complain when you cheer too loudly at the TV set.

I'll know the difference between giving you space and being constantly there for you—even if it means sitting and playing video games with you or taking hot chocolate runs when it rains.

I'll listen to your music and we'll go on epic adventures together—seeing the world, taking awesome pictures, eating awesome food, and never running out of things to tell each other along the way.

I won't be waiting for you to sweep me off my feet and take me on a magic carpet ride, because I know I won't need anything like that to fall for you—I will love you for you.

You will be that someone to make goofy faces with in pictures, to lace fingers with when I'm lonely, and to take long walks under the stars with on the beach.

You'll be the guy who takes me the way I am—and will laugh as I burst into Disney song or pick out pink wallpaper.

You'll be that someone I envision a future with—us filling out visa forms as we travel the universe, picking out our first dog together and arguing about what to name it, or being snap-happy stage parents in our preschooler's annual mini-plays. And I keep hoping that maybe someday when we find each other, you will become that someone whose smile I wake up to in the morning and the last one I speak to every night.

So to the man I know does exist, and who will help me maybe make sense of the world someday, this man I can't wait to love. Please know that I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you. But for now, I wait. Fingers crossed and palms held together, I hope that you're out there somewhere, waiting for me, too.

With the hope I will be yours for always,

Me

Of Women, Tests, and Hints

I still don't get why women give men "tests". ITT guy told me about this girl he used to date. She would tell him she would call him at a certain hour, but she won't and expected him to call her instead. Of course, since he was told she was the one who's going to call him, he waited and never bothered to check on her (I think it's kinda douche-y of him not calling her, but I think that's because they were just seeing each other and were not together yet). By the next day she told him he failed her little test.

I was having a fit last night when I heard that story. I never tested any of the guys I went out with like that. Maybe I should have..hmmm.. LOL!

After reading a blog entry from Bedroom Blog By Veronica, I again questioned myself if I really am a woman or not. I don't give guys hints. I am as subtle as a gun when it comes to what I want and what I do not. Maybe that's why men think of me as a snow queen and a dude, because I do not act like my specie.

Women confuse me, but what's more irritating are men who act like women.

I write like.....

the website was introduced to me by thespitsmaster via Plurk.. I copied/pasted my works and got different results.

Like Clockwork - Chuck Palahniuk
Half-baked and Untitled - James Joyce
Salacious Delirium - Stephen King
Recipe for Rape - James Joyce
Whacked Out - Raymond Chandler
Long Night - Stephen King
Steamy Nite In Hollywood - Vladimir Nobokov
The Ride - Stephen King
Feels So Damn Gee Double-Oh Dee Good - Ray Bradbury
Idol Kita Ateh Eh! - Chuck Palahniuk
Kating-Kati at 'di Mapakali - James Joyce
Getting Down On Laissez Faire Sex - Stephen King
Smooth - Stephen King
Love of A Lifetime - James Joyce
Predator - Vladimir Nabokov
PMS Thoughts and Whines - James Joyce
Manang! (Spinster!) - Stephen King
Calling All the Angels - Chuck Palahniuk
Baldy of Bakery Blues - Margaret Atwood
They Call Me Cita - Stephen King
Fagged Out and Desperate - James Joyce
Hypocrisy: Tigilan Mo'ko, 'di Ka Cute! - James Joyce
Wasted - Stephen King
The Pink Ribbon Month - Margaret Atwood
I Miss Me - Stephen King
Of Egg Production, Harvest, and Storage - Stephen King
Walking-In - Stephen King
I Think I'm Paranoid - Raymond Chandler
The Chat - J.D. Salinger
The Curse Part Deux - Margaret Atwood
Erotomanic Neurosis - Stephen King
Remembering.. - Douglas Adams
[Boogan] Scrubbing - William Shakespeare
My Muslim Father - Dan Brown
Scouting for Boys - Dan Brown
The Curse of Being My Girl Friend - Stephen King
Sapphic Poem - James Joyce
Friends With Benefits - Stephen King
Psychology of Crushes - James Joyce
Kiss - James Joyce
The Lost Pot Lid - Kurt Vonnegut
Fear of the Known - Stephen King
To Be With You - Dan Brown
Walk in the Dog Park - Raymond Chandler
Of Burnt Butts and Beer Foams - Margaret Atwood
Build Me Up Buttercup - Margaret Atwood
The Perfect Fit - Raymond Chandler
Regrets - Chuck Palahniuk
I'm Not Keeping Tabs, but..what's Our Real Score? - Raymond Chandler

Tigish-Tigish!!!

Men are Sexual Hypocrites

Men are sexual hypocrites. They push women for sex, then blame them for having sex. They’re particularly stuck on the idea that if a woman hops into bed with them quickly then she must have done this with lots of other men as well. This lowers her value in his eyes. After all, if everyone can have her, she can’t be all that special, can she? On the other hand, if a guy is crazy about a girl, and they move really fast, all the rules go out the window. In fact, this is the way MOST of relationships have started. But then, always be determined not to be hypocritical when a woman has the same lack of morals guys do. Men love women with loose morals.

How I Spend My Day

Coreen

I got intrigued by my name since I've a Gaelic name but found out that my given name was already of Irish origin meaning maiden. So I've searched for it on the www, and what have I got apart from the aforementioned?

1. end of hills (Aboriginal Australian)
2. filled heart (French)
3. hummingbird (English)
4. maiden (Greek)
5. spear (unknown origin)

But, according to a good friend, Alex Enigma Machine, the description from Urban Dic is very apt. LOL. (click the entry's title for the Urban Dic description)

Friends With Benefits Prospectus