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Yeah, you got me. I don’t know anything about poker except that it’s a card game and it’s tremendously more appealing when the word “strip” is involved. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play poker, but I never get the chance. Something always comes up like…

• I’m not in the mood.
• I’ve got better things to do like, say, drink beer using two hands.
• People around me are smelly.
• That leprechaun who lives under our oven toaster keeps telling me gambling is evil.
• It’s Tuesday.
• I’m writing blog articles nobody reads save for a couple of homeless people I pay to read my blog in Internet cafes.

But I think the right time has come for me to learn how to play poker. And I know exactly where to start: Pokerstars.net.

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It’s obvious that the Universe has been constantly trying to screw me over since the day I was born, as evidenced by my chinky eyes that aren’t really chinky but still looks kinda chinky. I’ve always taken crap from the Universe and all its cosmic conspiracies against me. But I say it’s time to fight back! And last night, when one of its minions tried to ambush me with his sideswiping powers, I showed it that I mean frickin’ business!

I was driving home from work, picking my nose like nobody’s business, right? I saw this chick outside a cab (I dunno whether she was coming in or out of the cab, but she’s hot) in front of the Valle Verde Country Club in Pasig. I slowed down as a courtesy to the lovely lady because, as we all know, speeding in front of respectable hot chicks is simply rude. So anyway, yeah. I slowed down. And then this asshole cut me off, and HE ACTUALLY HIT ME! Here’s a 2D re-enactment of the appalling incident:

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So I’ve always wanted to keep a diary, right? I tried it back in high school. Most of my entries were about girls, people that I hated, my parents always trippin’ on me, and more girls. I eventually grew tired of writing journal entries every other month. It was too much work. And it was sorta gay.

I tried it again in college. Using small planners, I jotted down short phrases every day. So in a way, it was written in code that only I, Baddie, can decode. I stopped doing it when my ex-girlfriend got a hold of my cute little planner. She gave me a beating (this is an opening for a hand job joke, but I won’t go there) after seeing all kinds of code names that were obviously for girls. Hey, I’m a friendly guy! Shut up.

I still sort of keep logs of my life by writing blog entries both in this blog and in Face Rockery. But all the tiny details of my everyday life are obviously seeping through the cracks of my Alzheimer’s-esque memory. This is where Twitter comes in.

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When it comes to illness and ailments, there are three groups of people. First, those who are too paranoid about their health that at the first sign of the smallest discomfort, they always think the worst and they scram to the nearest clinic or hospital to have themselves checked. Let’s call these guys Paranoid Pessimists. Second, those who wait a while before seeing a doctor. They’re boring. Let’s not talk about them. Third, those who think they have a healing factor or regenerative abilities or something. They only consult specialists when they’re already coughing blood or shitting green goo. They always say “I’m OK. Really.” These guys we’ll call OK Optimists. I am one of them.

As an OK Optimist, I always choose to wait things out no matter how scary the situation already is like the most recent thing that happened to me, Bell’s Palsy. Given that I didn’t really consult anyone about it, let’s just pretend that reading stuff on the Intarnetz is a reliable substitute for medical consultation and acknowledge my condition really is Bell’s Palsy. Come on, the symptoms where there! Don’t bug me!

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