< romantic experiment >

   Shari thinks that the strange phenomenon known only as the dreaded Curse of Marocharim is sad.  I don't know: I'm just about the only guy I know of who gets over the fact that his ex and his Platonic relationship ran awry because they finally realized that they were really lesbians.  Anyway, now to expound.

   I haven't heard of any talisman that protects anyone from the Curse of Marocharim.  Even my then-long hair was not enough to protect me from it.  The real danger that comes with the Curse of Marocharim is the WTF moment that comes with it: the pain is merely a side effect of the self-inflicted emotional mutilation and flogging.

   If you happen to realize your ex is really gay, there's nothing much you can do to stop it, because you can't reverse that other dreaded emotion: happiness.  Of course, if you're a sadist like me you would realize that you're pretty lucky to be the last man to ever have a romantic relationship with her, and that's a good thing.  There are far worse things that could probably happen, like your ex finally has a realization that she has a fascination with the sexual habits of dogs.  If you realize that, you're better off committing suicide.  You've been dumped for a dog.

   I have written entries about getting dumped before, but to get dumped for a gay (OK, OK, intrasexual) relationship takes a bit more than the usual bottle of San Miguel Beer we men usually take to find the answers to the deepest questions of life (it's just about as deep as the bottle, trust me).  After much intellectual and physical masturbation on the many advantages of a man having a lesbian partner, I have finally come to the solution to getting over it.

   Not really.  These are really deep wounds that come with thinking that you actually got used or manipulated into having them realize the inevitable.  And I still can't get over the thought of the many advantages of a man having a lesbian partner.  What, I don't lie in my blog.

   When this first happened, my friend Ruth was protesting heavily and was taking my side all the while.  In Filipino, she reasoned out to my ex that this was the reason why many women get beat up by men.  Unfaithfulness and frigidity, I think, classify for the best reasons why violence against women is a rampant crime in the domestic settings of the Philippines.  But the second time this happened I took the more conventional route (i.e., the bottle of beer) and finally got to the idea and the whole reason why I'm cursed.

   I'm not going to tell you.  It's my ego on the line.

< romantic experiment >

   The reason why I quit having a romantic relationship is because of the dreaded Curse of Marocharim.  Every single person I have a romantic relationship with eventually dumps me and turns into - you guessed it - a lesbian.

   The Curse of Marocharim is deceptively simple and cannot be comprehended by the simple-minded.  I am from UP, so you know the kind of romantic environment there is here: everything is accepted save for bestiality.  The kind of dread that there is in the Curse of Marocharim is not the pain that comes with knowing.  I classify that as a mere symptom.  The dread comes in knowing that I could probably make a gay man straight.

   I've been contemplating, in my chauvinistic sex-object-making erection-building commodifying way, and I think I should start courting lesbians.  As much as a threesome would probably sound nice...

   Nah.  I'll expound on this next time.

< hmmm... >

   One of my idols in writing, Mr. Max Soliven, died today.

   It's a sad day.

< romantic experiment >

   Over the course of endless romantic experiments I ask myself the question, "How do you know someone loves you?"  There are an endless number of clichéd ways to know: flowers, chocolate, candy, dates, movies, twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords-a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids-a-milking, seven swans-a-swimming, six geese-a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree (hah, made you sing).

   But when you try to know and you have no idea, you make asa to the countless numbers of bloggers in the world who, through their own experiences, tell you how someone loves you.  Me?  Come on, you read me for the Manny Pacquiao-bashing and my thoughts on things like cabbage and semen and how they apparently go well together for the gay guy.  But some people tell me I'm a great giver of love advice.  I wouldn't know how in the hell that would happen.  Except, of course, if I live by it and stand by the apparent fact that I give great romantic advice.

   Trust me, ladies (assuming that a lot of girls read TMX), in saying that there is but one way to know someone is really patay na patay for you and would literally send himself over to an early grave just to die in your arms.  Love is pathetically simple: take my case.  I've always sang the same songs to the ones I love for one reason: because I can't explain the feeling of being romantically (or Platonically) attached.

   Take the case of a friend of mine who was given a six-page love letter a little over four years ago, as a "fitting" ode to her tisay beauty.  Now I would usually find one-page love letters romantic and two-page love letters completely appalling, but six-page love letters are one of those things better used as good toilet paper in the absence of loo rolls.  It's hard to explain, but think about it: the best papers in the world are short and simple and hard to write.  Long-winded papers are a pain in the ass to read but would take an ass to write.  Like me.

   The old days of harana and long explanations of love under a tree by the shores of a shimmering lake are done and over with.  Subjecting your beloved to a full reading of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet might be romantic to some, but piss annoying to the bulk of us who prefer to put things so bluntly that you think you're being stabbed in the back with a dildo (I don't mean that in a sexual way).  There was a time that I, too, created so many lengthy explanations about being in love that my ex eventually became bored and dumped me for my best friend at school.  Nowadays I prefer not to be romantically inclined, tending more towards that caustic and pathetic attitude of not falling in love and then acting like an ass about not having enough "spice" in my life.

   (As a digression, as you can see, I'm back to writing those long experiments that I first became sorta famous for.)

   I've been witness to a lot of rambling men and women ranting and raving odes about how they love their loved ones and how they'd give earth, sea and sky just to have them by their side for all eternity.  I say, poetry is crap.  I once met a guy who, after reading an experiment of mine, said that he once recited Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" to his girlfriend and eventually got dumped.  You see, that's where most men go wrong.  First, "Trees" is not a good romantic poem and second, you don't go about making poems for a girl.  Girls are dispensable, words aren't.  That earns me the pitchforks from the many women in the world who are willing to skin my hide for keeps because I'm such a practical-minded chauvinist.

   "You love me because..." your prospect asks.  I say, screw it.  You wouldn't want to waste saliva explaining the unexplainable and you wouldn't want to think about the googol number of ways you can express your love to somebody.  It's too much thinking for the feeble mind of a guy and it's too much comprehending for the feeble mind of a girl.

   But if you're really pressed for an explanation (it's a choice between getting laid in bed and getting laid to rest) you have to explain.  Here's where things get really interesting.  Here's where you would know who really loves you.

   Here are two cases:

   Case 1: "I love you because you mean the world to me.  I would never live another day without knowing you or without thinking of you in my dreams.  I care for you more than anyone else in the world and that you are the meaning of my life.  When I first met you, you were the first one to bring the light to my dark world, darkened by despair, solitude and loneliness.  When I started talking to you, you started to bring meaning into my world because you talk a lot of sense and you're the most sensible person I know.  And now, as I look into your eyes, I feel that there's something going on between us.  I love you and I promise that I'll take care of you and I will continue loving you until the day I die."

   Case 2: "I love you because... uh... ay, basta, mahal kita."

   Case 1 took me two minutes to write and Case 2 took me all but five seconds.

   Case 1 looks romantic to some and would probably make waves in the love-letter racketeering circuit, and Case 2 would probably look pathetic.  But think about it: "meaning of my life," "light to my dark world," doesn't that suck?  Doesn't Case 1 belong in a Friendster testimonial or probably written in that small hunk of shit floating around in a Manila estero?  Case 2, on the other hand, is deceptively simple.  It says "I love you" like nothing else because it doesn't subject anybody to those lengthy explanations about love that, let's face it, nobody needs.  The fact that the person in Case 2 cannot explain love is the reason why the person loves his prospect.

   If someone gives you lengthy explanations, dump him.  He's just a man.

< hmmm... >

   I finally had a recollection of who in the blue hell I am.

   I am Marocharim.  I am a chain-writing, chain-drinking, chain-smoking, chain-swinging freak.

< boom boom boom >

   In Filipino, di ko ilalabas ang aking tambol, wala akong torotot na itinago sa baul.  Like you, like me, like everybody else, I hate Willie Revillame's pop hit, "Boom Tarat Tarat."  Mr. Revillame is the scourge of this planet.

   I shouldn't be that harsh, maybe.  Just because I can't do pelvic thrusts as well as the next enthusiastic guy, that doesn't mean I shouldn't reflect my caustic attitude on such a popular song.  Well, it's popular, I'll give them that: a bus dispatcher last night whistled to the tune of "Boom Tarat Tarat," well, much to my chagrin.

   Introducing the new verb "taratat" into Filipino is annoying, but it could make me a couple of thousand bucks if I entered it into a contest.  Although I am particularly annoyed right now about the state of Philippine poverty and how people on a Wowowee set are willing to be part of the much-vaunted "Bigat-10" all the while dancing to "Boom Tarat Tarat."

   Of course, I downloaded it.

< hmmm... >

   You know what, I'm more of the betting man than you think.  And I bet against Manny Pacquiao.  That's how much I hate him.  Even if he beat Erik Morales in three rounds.  Even if he cried during the playing of the Philippine National Anthem.  Even if some people are willing to stick their tongues inside his asshole every time he farts.

   You heard me.  There are people - sick people, at that - who are willing to stick their tongues inside his asshole every time he farts.  Mike Arroyo, Monico Puentevella, Korina Sanchez, Lito Camo, the President.  OK, I'm using a tasteless metaphor to describe the kind of tasteless relationship most of us - the lot of us - enjoy with regards to the Pacman.  We eat his endorsements - I tried the Pacman milkshake - like Pac-people.  We think of him as the better boxer even if his opponent, Erik Morales, looked anorexic in the effort to get to the prime weight (it wasn't even fair).  The langka ice cream I had is sitting idly in my stomach, and nobody would stick their tongues into my asshole when I fart.  It's that bad.

   Never mind the countless people who lost bets betting against Pacquiao.  I don't blame them.  It's called saturating the market: we're in too much Pacman Fever turned into an epidemic of sorts that some of us are just sick of Pacquiao.  Kayabangan does not cut it: I can't blame Pacquiao for being a patriot on these trying times for the Philippines, but come on, there's just too much of him going on that it doesn't make sense anymore.

   It happens.  We Filipinos are looking for heroes.  In a world full of lousy politicians, financial crises and doomsday scenarios that even the likes of Jim Paredes are thinking about leaving the country, even Wowowee is not the solution to our problems.  Oh, I almost forgot: like me, Manny Pacquiao is a fan.

   Some people tell me that I'm just jealous of Manny and that I should be a "patriot" and stop writing about Pacquiao in a negative fashion.  I don't know, but who could blame me?  Too much Manny is getting into my system that until the Barrera fight on February, I am not going to write any more Manny Pacquiao related entries.

< system of a down? >

   Like a lot of people, I grew up not having much money.  I live - and I mean literally live - on a hundred bucks a schoolday.  Some students may cry oppression over issues of allowance, but I don't.  A hundred bucks is enough to buy my lunch, my cigarettes, the daily beer (long ago when I still had the urge to drink) and the Internet.

   Not having money gives me a new sense of freedom since I get to do what I want with what little I have.  We're in dire straits now ever since my dad's little incident with a car and a scooter and I think I'd do fine being poor for the rest of my life.  I've grown on the fact that being rich will not make you happy, and I've dwelt on the fact that given my course, I'll be anything but a rich man.

   Which brings me to rich people.  Being rich gives me more problems than I'm willing to face.  I'm willing to let go of dreams of money and live the life of a Tondo squatter: after all, Bill Gates is not a social anthropologist.  I am.  Who knows how much money I would make betraying indigenous peoples for their land?

   I got to talk about this whole "me getting rich" with my mom, who said that she'll probably disown me if I live an unprincipled life.  Getting a job as a professional consultant (OK, apologist) with a logging company would have me having a pseudonym of "Maro" and I'd probably be dying all over again in my wake.

   Anyway, back to being poor for the rest of my life.  My parents, over and over again, stress the "reality checks" that I have to face about being poor.  For one, they expect grandchildren.  Me and my bro have no plans about getting married because we vowed celibacy (he's a computer science major).  I ain't no Manny Pacquiao who'll rise from rags to riches.

   Maybe I'm disappointing my parents.

< hmmm... time for a romantic experiment >

   Platonic love is a bummer.

   The fact that some people are "inspired" by their crushes to do well irritates me.  I have a few freshie crushes (cradle snatcher daw) and I'm not inspired to do well with my academics at all.  About the only thing motivating me is a thesis and a chance to get out of UP without getting into Maximum Residency Rule.

   You know what, I don't think that some people in Platonic love are even inspired.  "She's my inspiration, that's why I'm trying to do well" is faulty logic for me.  It defies the very purpose of meaning.  When you love somebody always on your mind, you know the love is not meant to be.  I should know: that's exactly how I got over my ex.

   Nay, even Marocharim the Infallible is prone to Platonic love but I'm over it.

< hokey pokey, pinoy style >

   When I was depressed, half-listening to my dad about my "negative attitude" towards Math, a name came up: Queena Lee-Chua.  A brillant mathematician who tells everyone math can be fun.

   I've run my little scruff with Jessica Zafra and why I don't write like her, but now I'm running into a little scruff with Queena Chua about why I completely and utterly disagree with her.  You see, all the math I know can be summed up in a single bullet point: that 1 + 1 = 2, 2 + 2 = 4, 4 + 4 = 8, doblehin ang 8.  The little that I know of math didn't save me in statistics.  Now that I'm born to live a life of illusory happiness because I cannot count my change and I'm a philantrophist to storeowners and taxi drivers everywhere, I'd like to revisit my first entry in the Experiment.

   It's about Math 11.  College algebra.

   My parents are Accounting majors, my brother is a computer geekazoid to the nth degree (positive tone).  I never inherited a single degree of mathematical aptitude from anyone.  Math is the bane of school, the penultimate academic nightmare, because algebra, to me, is useless.  I don't do polynomials counting my change, I don't do trigonometry when I admire a mountain, I don't do calculus brushing my teeth.  I don't factor perfect square trinomials when I take into account the factors of social phenomenon (at least that's what I'm good at).  I don't do anything mathematical with anything.

   That's what I think, though.  What about you?