Reforming takes a little too much effort for one to be truly loyal to the cause. It will take grit, total confidence in one’s ability to be strong and one very single-minded vision to truly stick to the path of change.

Neither one of them posses this capability. So, it continued. Their meeting were mere chances, but one cannot discount the fact that they have felt more, basked more in the act with the both of them there.

The sadist woman still sought after delivering pain. The masochist man constantly looked forward to receiving it.

There wasn’t much that she could do about it. The act kept replaying itself in her head. The hand she used tingled with the remembered sensation. She will do it again. No doubt about it.

The Masochist

His face was bruised from jawline to the crest of his head. He couldn’t go out today for the fear of being judged, but it is a small price to pay. As soon as the mark healed, he will go back to his usual life until the urges start up again. He will go back and repeat it. No doubt about it.

What am I blabbing about? My blasted dog’s decision to commence eating as I knelt there sporting a bluish bump on my left leg. Right on my shin, it was; you wouldn’t miss it.

After I accidentally rammed my shin on the drum I was keeping his food in and cried out in undeniable pain, Leon came galloping to my direction. Amidst my whimpers of pain, I felt the shower of his concern. Until, of course, I noticed that he was already mashing his face on the bowl of food that I just prepared for him and had to place down beside me to attend to the growing pool of blood (hence the creation of the bump) under my skin.

A corner of my mouth went to one side of my face as I looked at him wryly. Between checking on an injured me and his bowl of food, I apparently won’t win. Ah, harshness of realities.

The time is 1kmep (kilometer from extreme point). Clocks no longer exists due to the absence of the Sun. It’s still pretty early based on colony time, almost similar to the wee hours of our mornings. Our masochist and sadist had chosen to meet at this time to avoid the crowds and prying questions of colony members.

The masochist calmly strode inside one of the chambers, the sadist trailing behind him. He dropped on the middle of the floor and folded his legs. His pose isn’t exactly acquiescing nor submissive. Reclining backwards, he leaned on the arms he planted behind him. He was, in all aspects, expectant.

The sadist had stood on one corner of the room and watched the masochist as he went through his motions. She padded towards him, one step at a time, relishing every action she made. It didn’t take more than 5 seconds to reach him.

Positioned in front of him, she swung one arm outward and drove it direct to his cheek. The resounding clap of skin hitting skin bounded through the span of the room. He felt stinging pain, mixed with satisfaction. She felt heady with the power she delivered in her blow.

It was a need both wrong and unnecessary (ironic as that may sound). Still, they do it, achieving with what they have deluded themselves as the wholeness of their being.

I reckon that there would be many ways to do it. The ones that I would outline here are just mere conjectures. It would not hurt to keep on open mind though to see the possibility of them actually happening.

The first method of division are the sadists and the masochists. Readers, I repeat, this does not, DOES NOT, pertain to sexual preference. Rather, a person’s predisposition to pain (physical or psychological) is the context pointed out here.

Sadists and masochists should be separated from each other. It is similar to the concept of not putting prey and predator in one compartment. Yes, they occasionally bump into each other (usually due to the doings of the predator) but that should be the extent of it.

Masochists have to be placed in a colony where society rules limits self destruction and self help books are actual commodities. Passes to meet sadists are purchased for price and for a limited time. There are no jails here, but asylums abound.

Sadists, on the other hand, are to be lassoed in a colony where the government could be Nazi-like, and everyone is expected not to be found buried in a mass grave anywhere. Lashing out and fighting back are the norm here that being reprieved from a sentence due to an imbalance state of mind is almost null.

Meeting places designated for sadists and masochists to satisfy needs that could not be found in their homeland are neutral grounds. Here, anything goes. Undoubtedly, the views now will conclude that the masochists are at the losing end of the deal. However, considering sanity and well-being here are at stake, to a masochist, sacrifices (and of course the pain) are worth the trouble.

I am a masochist. What are you?

TBC

He is my huggy buddy. No, a stuffed animal will not do it for me. No, not a human huggy buddy either – not with the kind of sweltering weather we are having, turning every human skin into something close to sticker paper. I might, however, consider hugging Brad Pitt, Zac Efron, Will Smith, Johnny Depp, Chandleror Joey from Friends, regardless of atmospheric condition, personal status, physiological or mental state. I am likewise prepared to be filed with a restraining order, preventing me to be within a kilometre from them after the “hug” (insert maniacal laugh, kekeke).

I can just impulsively hugLeon. He doesn’t mind nor does not feel awkward about it. Whenever I open my arms wide (so I wouldn’t have to stand up and glomp him), he struts close into the embrace. The only downside to this is since he breathes mostly through his mouth, saliva dripping from the tip of his tongue, I get splattered with slimy mouth fluid.

He is my threat eliminator. No stray cat, chicken, or rodent hang around in our empty lot because he quickly disposes of them. No strangers picking on the fruits of the trees planted in our empty lot either as they are terrified to get mauled by my 100 or so pound canine. Any person carrying a bag coming directly toward me is immediately tagged as dangerous and is given the death glare before being pounced on. I would have enlisted him to K9 force but there are so many buts that I can think of.

He is my foot stool. I tried to sit on him once but him suddenly disappearing just as I was about to take a seat on his back told me that he thinks I would flatten him if I did that. He is the perfect foot stool however, content to simply have my leg slung on his back while we chillaxed.

(Yes, please, now is the time that you unhinge your head from the gutter).

I would have wanted to go on and on, but let me put a pin on this tale for the time being. Pressed by the summer heat to do other activities such as take a bath, drink water, eat ice, I bid you, albeit temporarily, adieu.

Located in a discreet pouch of the town, Pundaquit, San Antonio, Zambales, its name embodies its design. Fold up those tents and roll up those sleeping bags, Punta de Uian has all manner of rooms, bed and extra bed cushions that you can use. It’s whole expanse, in fact, that 19 kilometres is populated with lodgings of different styles – hotel rooms, separated bungalow houses, stylish dormitory-like accommodations, and the one where we stayed in: The Pent House.

Don’t get me wrong, and this goes to all claustrophobics out there, you won’t feel crowded in or too enclosed in due to the number of roofs that you can flit in and out from. The architect, maybe the engineer, or the landscapist (am I missing to mention anyone else?) has a good enough sense not to make the resort become a compound where you’d bump right into your neighbour the minute you walk out of the door.

(Well, if you did run smack into someone immediately after you stepped out, it probably is because your neighbour is good looking, is scantily dressed in a thong or is barely covered by a towel from the waist down and you did it on purpose. Pervert.)

Roaming around the place, you’d find a walkway blanketed with vines from the top. It served as a rock plated valley as it is sandwiched by a wide expanse of lawn from each side. There is also a grotto with a staircase on the side, on which someday you as a bride will ascend on the day you are to say your matrimonial vows.

A chapel, a statue of Mama Mary standing that is maybe about ten or fifteen feet tall is bunked at one of the corners of the resort, near the beach – a quiet place where you can guarantee peace of mind, serenity and probably that moment that you had been seeking to have some alone time with God because you have not been going to mass or at least the church lately.

(Guilty)

Fronting the shoreline are huts. If you are one of those die hard, crazy about dining al fresco, restaurant crews would be more than happy to serve your food here. For us who have rented The Pent House, our package included breakfast, a meal which we have enjoyed amidst the breeze of the sea, the shade of the hut and non-bustle filled life of a resort. We even had a view of Atong Ang’s gorgeous beach house whose second floor patio unfortunately had been ravaged by the waves.

The two days that we stayed there was enjoyable in a tranquil, “stress?-what-stress?” kindof way. We lounged and swam in the two pools equipped with Jacuzzis (the other pool actually has an attached kiddie pool to it, but we pretended it’s a Jacuzzi anyway). We ate mostly in the hut sitting in the patio of our pent house where we had our meals served up. We surfed virtually through the wi-fi provided in our accommodations (the waves would have swallowed us whole if ever we did it in the actual beach). We roamed around and even hitched a ride to the next island merely to rekindle the feeling of being ferried around. We took a thousand shots of pictures: candid shots, jump shots, twist-twist shots (very effective in hiding protruding bellies) and wacky shots.

Though the resort offered a lot more activities (see puntadeuian.net), we didn’t regret sticking with the simplicity of what we have done. Not a single drop of adrenaline was wasted on this adventure (as mentioned no armies to take down, no dragon to slay, no scary insert name of object of your phobia to run away from), but worth it.

Daniw, Shuts, Cai, Cris, Mark, let’s all do this again. Mark, you have got to be on time in our next trip!

The title meant not to offence anyone, merely to suit the content of this article.

I have been itching to feature Topi before but whenever I try to observe while I plot my thoughts into words in plain paper, Ate Kc’s addictive, chant-like greeting everyti8me she gustily showers her pets with affection resonates in my ear. It puts me into a trance like state that I loose all awareness of what I should be doing and end up glomping Topi while thinking and/or muttering:

Cuter-cuter. Cuter-cuter. Cuter-cuter.

Ate KC, I blame thou!

That aside, I finally caught some quiet time with Topi’s picture and recalled into mind the knowledge that I have of the youngest pet in our household. The going was difficult at first considering that I was not in direct contact with the real deal, but I made do. My musings have been broken down to the three pointers below:

First, Topi outweighs her mom (Tinee) by an ounce, taller maybe by half an inch. These excesses, overgrowths if you may, had given Topi much confidence that she blatantly shoves her mom out of the picture the second Ate KC showed signs of lovingly squishing Tinee.

Second, she is feisty. She barks at cats (but she does not come near them) and when she was introduced toLeonand saw that her backside is almost the size of his snout, she snapped at him. She was very lucky to have escapedLeon’s answering snap.

Third and the last note, she has a beard. Tinee, Minime (male) and Leon (male) all have whiskers, but she—only she—has a beard. How did it come to this, you ask? Well, since the fur onLeon’s snout would never grow past a quarter of a centimetre, whilst Tinee and Minime had an overall summer cut, Topi would have to contend with being the sole pet with a beard. Ate KC had never gotten it shaved as quote, unquote, she said, “Maintaining it is a brick!”

The beard may have left Topi looking distinguished and, dare I say it, unique, but let me tell you, it now smells like dog saliva and pee.

If you’re unused to the idea of doing it, however, nervousness will permeate your being. Second thoughts will plague your mind that you may actually back out even before you move a toe to act on it.

I kept my limbs tightly bound around me so as to avoid being sucked in this journey. I am scared to do it – the mind numbing regularity, the resulting non-excitement of the activities that I would cook up, the undemanding, hassle-free life. It would drive me up the wall.

Nothing would budge me from where I was, or so I thought. The banana peel that many said will make you slip and fall, despite how good your stance is had been dropped right on my path. I know that if there is anything that will be my undoing, this will be it. That’s why I didn’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole at first, but curiosity plagued me to test other’s testament about this danger.

One foot nudging it was all it took. My whole being went skiing, helter-skelter and then finally got dumped on that bland, my-adrenaline-will-forever-be-stocked-up-in-my-adrenal-glands-adventure.

This was my initial impression and it lasted for about two weeks.

TBC

JD had strategized a way to show off his newly developed technique and prowess in basketball. Of course, in order to perfectly execute the plan, he had snagged his best friend Turk along with it.

After relaying the details to his chocolate bear the set-up (otherwise known as Turk and no, it is not a gay thing), JD zoomed towards the ring and leapt. His aim was completely off. Miscalculation of both height, distance and trajectory had his frontal lobe meeting the acquaintance of the hoop.

Hoop: Hello!

Frontal Lobe: Aaaahhhh!

The resounding bang of forehead hitting

metal echoed in the entire court. Unconscious, JD went free falling from the three feet height he cleared from the ground. As an unfortunate result of what just happened, the posterior side of his body awaited, likewise, the acquaintance of the ground:

Posterior side of JD’s body: Hello!

Patch of cemented ground1: You’re mistaking me for a bed!

Patch of cemented ground2: Here’s another one!

Turk, in support of JD’s state of lying on the ground, settled himself down

beside JD. His reasoning? He would not want JD to look like a fool lying down there all by himself. So, he got comfy, horizontally parallel to his partner in crime.

Much in the same way, this reminded me of the

agreement – unwritten and unspoken, just this mere understanding communicated through our bond – between Leon and me. He knows that I am a clumsy idiot, always becoming instantly alert at a squeak that I make whenever I made a misstep.

Stupid wobbly ankles!

Anyways, a couple of weeks ago, I was playing with my beloved dog, getting him to race with me- though a bit pointless as he goes up to speeds

of 100mi/hr. He likes to smugly zoom past me though and I like letting him get the upperhand here at the very least.

We used the coconuts trees at the end of the empty lot as the starting point. After sharing a look with him, I shouted, “Go!”

There we went, digging our feet/paw in the dirt to push ourselves forward. Loose rocks were on our way – I struggled to avoid them but Leon was undeterred. Disaster struck as we, rather I, reached the end of the line. As Leon waited for me there, tail wagging, the balls of my feet rolled along with the pebbles they landed on.

My legs flew up in the air and my rump predictably kissed the ground as I noisily descended on it. A tear or two would have leaked out of my eyes if I hadn’t found Leon suddenly on my side, tongue out, mouth wide ope

n as he huffed in and out.

Yes, maybe he was laughing at me, but I couldn’t discount the fact that he was there. Rump smarting, I hugged him and giggled along.

Love my doggie.