Bad.

DATELINE: Friday Weekend.



WHISKED in the middle of Malate at the fabulous O Bar, my conversation was punctuated by ho-hums and my enthusiasm was on a coma—I was bored to my skull while everyone else was high with their terrestrial emote mode reachin’ nosebleed heights.

Resisting all temps to swig on alcohol, I gunned “I don’t wanna…” to friends and “Not tonight…” to roaches offering free drinks. But no sooner than my fave waiter Vil could open his mouth and ask for my order, I mumbled “Red horse, pare..” like any jolog canto boy would quip.

G, my friend slash fag hag extra ordinaire handed me—what appeared to my alcohol-free vision—an innocent chunk of ugly pastry.

“Brownies, gagah!” and shoved it into my mouth.

After three horsies, more roaches and lotsa cuentos, I was waving my friendly dirty finger at hotties and snarling at poseurs (whose idea of fashion was big buckled belt and, aargh!, suspenders that made them look like smurfets copycats--bite me, I’ve had devil in a brownie and stupidity in brown bottles).

We were on our way to stone’s throw away Mafia and Bed Club when a free loader (there are lots of them disguising as friends) barged into our direction chumming me up for VIP entrance in the clubs (I can bring in two guests). I, in my altered self, pointed at my two diva friends and snapped “DYOSA! DYOSA! DYOSA! IKAW, DYOSAH KA BA?!!”

Tsk, tsk. I was so bad I can smell my own conscience rotting.