[ The SSDD Boy ]: Of Swagger Cow and Chicken (Pox)

Today I'm back to good, ol' España, Manila.

I'm staying here for a week and I'm looking forward to seven frackin' days of living the same, old bastardly life of getting a migraine over some Third World traffic brought about by stupid jeepney honkers, wading through high tides of murky flood waters (yes, I am officially announcing the early advent of the rainy season as global warming obviously dictates the sign of the times), and swigging bottles upon cold bottles of Red Horse booze with my equally retard España friends.

So what happened to your current Pasig dwellings, I hear the three of my loyal bandwidth bystanders who seem as lost with their lives as I am at the moment by killing boredom through reading this oh-so-friggin' boring yadda yadda asking.

Allow me to explain:

A friend of the housemates-slash-friends is moving in the Pasig apartment for a week to finally get a life and quit clinging to the parent's dole outs for dependence. With the six-month contractual work back in the province wrapped up, the friend of the housemates-slash-friends decided it's about time he gets his provincial balls some new ambiance and his dick dipped in Manila's haywire traffic and pollution for a change; thus, the seven-day transience in the house. The friend of the housemates-slash-friends is not my type of guy; every inch of his swaggering stench makes me puke my guts out, the fuckin' badass stink of his persona making me friggin' sick. The friend of the housemates-slash-friends is not my friend; he is a fiend.

And since I can't feign civility and Tupperware acts of comradeship while the friend of the housemates-slash-friends is within the premise with me, and since the bond between the friend of the housemates-slash-friends and the housemates-slash-friends has been established longer than my ties with them, I opted to avoid open hostility and dragged my ass back to the other bastard friends' abode here in España, Manila for ephemeral shelter.

Which , by the looks of it, I now regret. Not because I miss the Pasig mattress and the free Wi-fi and the Chinita next-door neighbor who jogs every five o'clock in the morning and goes home sweating in all her skimpy jogging outfit glory but rather, because two of the España bastards acquired the much-dreaded viral infection of chicken pox.

The SGV Audit-whore was the main carrier of the contagious illness having contracted chicken pox more than two weeks ago at the very least, him claiming that he got it from some random kid down the block. I suspect he got the bloody infection after engaging in forbidden pedophile activities for a long time with the unsuspecting tween. Also, I hear the poor kid is currently undergoing therapeutic counseling with the DSWD fat asses for the tormenting experience.

The Virus Carrier-slash-Accounting Pedophile

The narcissistic SGV Audit-whore, for his part, is left to contend with a face dotted with chicken pox crusts and scars all of his life when dealing with clients. Now this is saying something as the SGV Audit-whore is one fine specimen of how narcissism can become so addicting, every now and then checking how his face looks through the looking glass. He is using some scar-clearing facial wash, which I found out had salicylic acid as one of its active contents, at the moment. We are anticipating a Third World Michael Jackson clone through the SGV Audit-whore very soon.

On the other hand, Youngest Most Adult (as he looks the youngest amongst all of us in the group but, in truth, is the oldest by age), the recent pox victim who contracted the illness courtesy of the SGV Audit-whore, is looking forward to a pathetic Dalmatian existence once all the pox marks have settled down in his anemic skin cells. He is enjoying a one-week Sick Leave vacation at the moment and has confided using the work breather very wisely by watching Maria Ozawa porn and thereafter wanking his willy every other day when the Girlfriend (who is also part of the España bastards clique) is at work and when he is alone in the room. I am assuming the three-minute orgasms help fasten Youngest Most Adult's blisters scabbing.

Gawd, look at the huge pockmark scabs on his face. Give me immunity or give me death!

I texted the Mom back in the province whether I did, indeed, acquire the virus at some early age and the Mom texted back saying she's unsure but she thinks I already contracted the disease when I was a child, no crystal ball guarantees whatsoever, and so if she could please get her bimonthly obligatory allowance from me in advance and if I could please send it to her ASAP; I replied to the Mom saying I don't have the power to take out the 27th, 28th, and 29th from the calendar so if she could please bear waiting a few days longer and that the money would surely arrive by the time the 30th arrives.

Since I'm not pretty sure if I have had the gawddamn viral infection when I was a kid, I can't not exhibit the aghast facial expressions and the don't-come-near-me-or-I'll-stab-you-with-a-fork looks hurled at Youngest Most Adult every time he comes out of his hibernating hole to get something to drink and take a shit. I mean, I pretty much liked this guy as we've shared a lot of idiotic ramblings and pathetic sentemotional weepings over countless booze sessions back in college along with the Girlfriend; but by gawd if I get to acquire the gawddamn rash virus in some future time because of him, then I'm prepared to have the brotherly band at stake. It does not help that the Girlfriend is oblivious with the Youngest Most Adult's disease, her hugging and kissing and petting him like any normal, non-chicked poxed beau would. Between the risk of waking up each day looking at your face worse to or at the very least, close to how this guy looks like over the mirror and some real-life friendship nurtured and founded since college past, I'd rather choose the former.

The Girlfriend who seems to still be immune from the virus after countless French kissing with the Youngest Most Adult

At the moment, I am enjoying my welcome-back stay here in España, Manila by tormenting Youngest Most Adult and the SGV Audit-whore about how they very much seemed to own the ugliest faces ever created in the entire macrocosm, pox scabs and all, how the Girlfriend will have to dump Youngest Most Adult eventually for The Lanky Chinito Housemate and how the SGV Audit-whore won't experience coitus nirvana in his twenty-something virgin existence for having a pox scar-laden dick. Oh and yes, I do splash them with Isopropyl Alcohol whenever they talk to me and never forget to spray a bottle of Lysol after they've finished talking to me.

I hope they don't read this post, which I very much doubt as I have just been informed they do read it albeit not leaving some comment droppings. I pretty much don't know how they will deal with the friggin' sarcasm laid out here. Or heck, if they even know it's fuckin' sarcasm. Also, screw English-is-nosebleed stereotypes.

So for purposes of clarifying the matter, and for alleviating my doubts whether I do have had acquired the virus as well, I've Googled about the frackin' viral disease and here are the symptoms to confirm whether I will need to deal with a pathetic future of using hankies or bonnets or caps or Flame of Recca-ish ninja head gear to hide the bloody chicken pox scars on your face from ill-taunting society's public scrutiny:

Mild fever. The fever varies between 101º F to 105º F and returns to normal when the blisters have disappeared. (negative)

backache (check - caused by stress-laden call whoring work)

headache (check - caused by Third World traffic from hell)

sore throat (negative)

a rash (negative)

blisters filled with fluid (negative)

The gawddamn pockmarks are a sore in the eye. What if the scar scabbing goes deep down under? Holy shit!

At the moment, I can heave a sigh since the signs seem to be not indicative of me contracting the varicella-zoster virus. Or can I already? According to reliable (?) Wikipedia, "it takes from 10 to 21 days after contact with an infected person for someone to develop chickenpox." So yeah, if by any chance this blog has not had any updates or new posts 20 to 21 days from now, it's either I've gone to the US to have my face Michael Jacksoned or I've decided to become a hermit free from from the general bozos' screwing and ridicules over my pockmarks-loaded existence.