It's entirely tasking to switch into a new blog especially since you've already established a stronghold of permanence from your previous one. But as I've already told everyone, this petridish isn't doing it for me now.

Here's where you can find to poke the lazy bacteria:

http://notanotherblog.i.ph

P.S.

Still haven't got around putting the links, though. Will do that as soon as I can. :)

   After coming back from my hibernation from writing (nonsensical, self-indulgent posts), I noticed that my blog has been invaded my various kinds of adwares (and possibly, low-risk survey/data gathering spywares) disguised as your usual irritating pop-ups. Even the most patient would not be able to stand having their blockers be barraged by outrageously numerous pop-ups. (The computer I once used blocked close to a hundred before I could move my mouse freely).

So, anyway, I was thinking that I should change my blog host. I'm thinking maybe of moving to either wordpress or blogspot.

But then, moving isn't that easy for me. For one, I have to come up of a great design for the page itself that's why I'm taking some time teaching myself some cool stuff for photoshop. Then there's the problem that my fingers are so used to typing my blog address that I will need time to retrain them fingers. Plus, let's not forget the fact that the three years that I spent with this blog has been the longest commitment I've ever had with anybody. Right, it's even longer than my relationship with Schroo (which is two years and 2 months to this date).

Gash. What to do, what to do. If I know only how to scream castlemedia's greetings goodbye, I'll never have to leave. And if only blogdrive is more flexible, I'm sure I'll be satisfied here.

*sigh*

P.S. The move won't be anytime soon. As I've said, it's going to take me some time to design the new page even with the help of my Schroo. But hey, I'll be posting more often now that I'm able to balance my schedule now.

P.P.S. It's good to be back ;)

"Cholera! Cholera! Cholera!" flashed the Polish subtitles as it translate Mort Rainey's (Johnny Depp in the movie, Secret Window) tirade of expletives that literally means "excrement."

Those are what flashes too whenever I look at myself at the mirror. (What with deadlines looming every nanosecond, and projects burning holes in my imitation CK wallet, I simply have no time nor money to pamper myself.)

Oh, yeah. Them Polish subtitles flashes too whenever I log in the petridish. I'm actually a little worried that I'm finding it hard to start to write up something. Just these three paragraphs took an hour to formulate.

An authoress once said in an interview that there is no such thing as a writer's block. To cure it, she said, one must simply write. It was so simply said that I felt compelled to follow the advice. Plus with the threat of an obscured page ranking, it's imperative that I must write something.

So, I slapped the tiredness away from my yawning face. Then shook my booty to make my blood circulate with alertness.  And also, do a little jumping jack... flex my jaw... do eye exercises, ate the leftover sandwich from lunch, drank two glasses of water, took a pee, took a bath, then finally sat down in front of the computer to write down the cleverest and wittiest post people of the universe has ever read in the entire internetdom.

...

...

...

*yawn* Been three hours and that's about all I can write.

Cholera. Cholera. Cholera.

Never before had a pair of legs received so much attention than when I walked down the spiraling stairs in an above-the-knee woolen red plaid skirt with faux fur lacing the trim. I paused for a second, feeling slightly offended of all the eyes that continually stare and follow my graceful descend. But then I thought that one with greater nature (such as I have) must have it in her heart to forgive those that don't have the subtlety of gentlemanly admiration especially since its MY pair of limbs that they were out to admire.

Admire, yes. And it must be the chicness of the mini or the attractive sheen of aloe-moisturized skin or maybe even the supple movements of smoothly shaven gams. Whatever it was that cause them to look, I tingle with pleasure from what I can grandeurly suppose as admiration.

To this, I bestowed for my adoring fans a little piroutte combined with a smile that could beam up any Scottie in outerspace... only no Scottie would go up.

It was then that I looked down to inspect my pair of stunners and find them smeared by sooty pencil lead shavings from my Freehand Drawing class.

Never before had a face colored ten thousand shades of red in succession.

Oh the shame! The shame!

P.S.
The horror! The horror!

He doesn't know it yet but he is going to have the surprise of his life *devilish grin*

P.S.

Happe Heart's Day to all of you  x0x0

Because women's magazines' surveys say that most Eves preferred creativity when it comes to receiving marriage proposals, many Adams break sweat and pocket seams in devising the "sure-fire" way in making her say "I do."

But you know, beyond "a ring in cake's icing" or "a blanket of red rose petals", there are those that just wants THE question asked:

The M Word by Alan Ball

I never thought that I'd be getting a new pet until I opened Schroo's gift for me this Christmas. But it was a most welcomed surprise since I was thinking of getting it anyway sometime next year.  

"Oooooooh," rubbing my cheek against its white long fur, "Thanks for giving me Kitty, baby." I know, I know. Kitty is too simple but at the moment, my very pleased self prohibited me from any creative invention of names for furry loveliness.

Mirroring my pleasure, he teased me, "Oi, Toto's gonna be jealous of Kitty."

"Toto? Naahhh.," then I added teasingly, "But I wonder who would be when I say Kitty'll be by my side every night."

Kitty

P.S.

Schroo's note said, "Until we get the Queen Kong chair." And oh, Toto's my furry brown tote that is oftentimes mistaken as toy dog that can be mistaken as a dirty mop head.

Related Posts:

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www.myspace.com/hastang

"This cue stick," holding it at arms-length, "would touch my hips, butt, boobs, ANYTHING except the freakin' cue ball," I declared in irritation after our first hour in the billiard hall.

Never had I encountered a more caddish equipment than the cue stick I picked which chosed to behave like velcro to my bumps. It even beaten the tennis ball that would zing and plop in attraction to my face.

"Honey, first of all, you carry that stick like a fishing pole when you're not aiming. Second, you wield it like a fly swatter when you get excited. And third, squinting with just an eye open does nothing to improve your aim." Schroo said matter-of-factly, and then launched into a tirade of tips and tricks of the trade. Had I known that I'll be exposed to a trigonometry-cum-physics lecture, I would've brought a scientific calculator and a couple of cottonballs. 

Swiping the nosebleed with facial tissue, I enumerated all I've learned, "Calculating force application, 90 degree angle rule, aim dead center, stay cool, and Schroo-is-a-billiard-god. I think I got it all."

"And I think you're ready," he nodded in approval.

"Awryt!" I chirped gaily.

"Now, try again," he urged. So I did.

"Arrrggghhh."

"I would say that too if I miss a straight shot." Schroo observed, prying the cue stick from my hand as soon as he saw my eyes flashed dangerously.

Now unarmed, I slumped on a chair to lick my wounded pride. "This billiards' taking advantage of my virginity." I whined.

"I thought you said that this isn't your first time playing this game?"

"Only once, sweetie." I revealed. I was 10 when my brother tried to teach me the game. I won every round by using a bridge.  I added, "Besides, the knack to it never really penetrated to me so technically, that'll make me a virgin to this game."

"This is sad," I sighed, after a moment. He asked, "What is?"

"I don't have any sport that I excelled in except..." gradually breaking into a smile.

"Except?" 

"Shopping!" the smile broke into a grin.

"Uh, baby," he started, affecting a gentle tone, " I know how awful you're feeling right now but my boyfriendly wisdom won't even make me shut up at the fact that shopping is NOT a sport."

"It is. Lemme enumerate the whys," I argued with a smug smile. "One, like any sport, you use smarts for haggling and discount computations. Two, you improve your stamina from going to boutique-to-boutique, shop-to-shop, mall-to-mall and build muscle strength from carrying your shopping loots. Three, it can also be a combination of imagination, flexibility, and improvision when quantity goals try to stretch a tiny budget. This is akin to a swelled jock's ego trying to get more compliments than his sucky skills would allow it. And lastly, just like any sport, shopping create ties and bonds, and is competed to an arena (called the shopping mall) in a certain event (i.e, midnight madness sale)."

Schroo groaned. He would like to argue some points but unfortunately his boyfriendly wisdom decided against it. One may have the possibility of winning against Efren "Bata" Reyes, but he knows that one can never win an argument with a girlfriend.