The Paostian Deal

Last night my colegiala-beyond-repair sister had friends over for a party. What kind of sweetgirls party, I'm not so sure. I was hogging the second living room with the PS2 when the pompom-less ladies and their cohort "cool dudes" arrived. I had earlier hoped that they won't notice me even though they would have to pass my space to reach the dining table where dinner lied. I played deadma for as long as I can, but sadly I lost, and my Saturday night was almost ruined. STILL, there was SOMETHING, and it pushed me to rethink updating my hitlist:

They had the decency NOT to say "Hello pooooo" or "Good evening poooooooooo." Not even a wink.

It must be my I'm-supposedly-at-home-so-it's-messy hair. Or my straight face. Or maybe my reputation just precedes me? I don't know. I'm just thrilled--elated, even--to discover that there is still hope for sane living.

Can't have enough of re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-recurring Harry Potter mania. That's seven fabulous books now--except for Ginny--five movie adaptations, 10 years and a billion dollars ahead of Queen Elizabeth II. Back off, I'm a fan.

Anyway, I've been having a hard time sleeping at night for a week now. Darn horror flick. It's either full lights-curtains down-windows shut or full lights-curtains down-windows shut-Jack TV on. Makes me wanna face the mirror every minute and yell Riddikulus! nine times. It's a spell in Harry to turn fear into humor. Wait, that wouldn't change anything in my case...

Darn eye bags.

Piece of advice: Never watch horror flicks when you have no corporal roommate. Catch a love story instead. Guaranteed cheesiness to make you desperate for a corporal bedmate. Then you can stare at all uberly-pale-skinned girls with half a face the Chinese could think of.

If there's something more pathetic than pretending to keep a journal, it's missing your six-months-in-the-making salon appointment because you overslept. And Raymond Gutierrez haplessly lowering his pitch to outdo Richard who's actually straight.

Goodness. Before I further bury myself into the muddy pod of (self) mockery, let me at least try to sneak out by offering a legit reason: I've been at work.

Honestly.

The magazine has been undergoing A LOT of changes in the past months. Toxic, man, real icky. I didn't dare look the other way or things would've crash. It could still do, so I'm keeping myself on "hero" mode. It's only this week that we saw the third SWEET fruit from our tree that is masochism. The magazine owners LIKE the mag now--that's straight men reading a showbiz title. The truth comes direct from straight, non-closeted, fairly-muscled men, so when they sent their congratulations to the staff and said they "like the magazine now," I rose from bed and hosted a mini-party for 1 at half past 2am. My ears clapped louder than Raymond's whenever he "rubs shoulders" with his twin's straight guy friends.

AT LAST!