Getting better

Sorry, but there hasn't been anything new to blog about. Some "projects" in the pipeline, but I don't want to discuss it yet. You know how it is when you're so hopeful about something, you'd think you'll be chasing the luck away if you even talk about it?

No, it's not about my love life. (Or the illusion of it.) Heck, I've been too busy turning down dates. *Sigh* It ain't easy being beautiful inside and out.

There have been, though, some "developments" in LXH's. Hehe.

But a well-meaning friend told me I really shouldn't be bitching about the (23-year-old) chick.

I won't.

I just really can't compete.

Not with her:

1. long, rebonded hair. (I really like mine short 'n sassy.)
2. papaya-whitened skin. (Proud to be brown.)
3. penchant for noontime variety shows. (Seriously...joke joke joke?)
4. pool-shooting skills. (Proficiency in billiards is a sign of wasted youth.)
5. eloquence in the vernacular. (I grew up in an English-speaking household.)
6. academic achievement. (Blue and white...I don't even mind green. But does she know what her school colors are? Does anyone EVEN know?)
7. racy pics taken in the bathroom, stark fluorescent lighting and white tiles in the background. ('Nuff said.)

Sorry, couldn't help it. Punzi agrees with me.

You talkin' to me?

I finally lived up to the family name. Dad will be thrilled.

Sunday, a friend took me to a firing range somewhere in Manila. I was loaned a .45 Colt, the type you see in the movies. Jesus, it was heavy.

And not just that, it was LOUD.

And another thing, I thought the gun was going to fly off my hand after the shot. The recoil was that strong.

So that's me, looking macho and all, twenty meters or so from the target.

And those are my shots. Well, some of them, though. My friend says my grouping's great, not too scattered and they ALL PRETTY MUCH HIT THE FREAKIN' TARGET.

Sorry...

Crap, been neglecting my blog.

Nothing much has been happening. I'm still single, but very much attached to LP.

As for Cat's dating misadventures, I was stupid enough to gorge on free Jack Daniels Friday night. Open bar. Imagine that.

"Party starts at 8." Now, for a veteran barhopper (nyahahaha...), them open bars run out of booze FAST. Nevermind being fashionably late. I'd rather be drunk and happy.

Drunk and happy, alright. I had consumed more than how many triples, before ten o'clock, by which time I hurled Red Kimono's beef kamameshi and california roll on a broken table somewhere in the building.

Next thing I knew, I was in bed, with LP beside me. I had no memory of how I got home.

I called up my date.

Do you remember getting down on one knee and asking me to marry you? He asks.

Er, no. If I don't remember it, it didn't happen. I reply.

Whew.