Why Did You Eat That Gnocchi?

To: Future Joshua
From: Past Joshua
Date: Thursday, 23 September, 2010

Subject: Why did you eat that gnocchi?


Dear Future Me,

It's 2pm on Tuesday, 22nd September 2009 and you had gnocchi for lunch. Now you're sitting here typing away while the potatoes and cream go bubbly in your stomach. You've been stinking up the place with your hot farts. The question is, why the hell do you do it to yourself?

For the last couple of weeks, you've been dealing with stomach problems that's seen you go to three different doctors and subjected to as many tests: a gastroscopy exam, an ultrasound and a course of blood work. You don't know the results yet, though you suspect it might be gall stones. Deep down, however, know that it will probably turn out to be nothing. You'll know the results by Thursday.

It's roughly four months away until Christmas. Your whole family is going overseas and for the very first time in your life, you're not going to be with them. You've decided to stay home for Christmas with the idea that you're doing so to save money. You are in considerable amount of debt and finding it a challenge to keep up. How is it now?

The other reason you've decided to stay is because of a boy. You've reconnected with a friend you met ten years ago. His name is Brian. He was involved with your other friend, Tristan. Do you remember? For Christmas, he is visiting from Canada and will be spending time with you for two weeks. You are excited to see him and is very much looking forward to his company. At the same time, you're worried because you have put on some weight and feel that you won't lose this in time. You want to look good for Brian because you know that there is some serious attraction between the two of you and sex is inevitable. You also know he has a boyfriend. Do you care? Perhaps not.

Your life is filled with challenges right now - work, money, health are your stumbling blocks - but you're also blessed. You have a six-month old nephew whom you adore and feel privilege to watch grow.

You love your family deeply, despite of the recent argument you've had with your mother but that happens. You think she's going through menopause. You have an envious life and you have great friends. Remember this even though at times your mood swings erratically and you want nothing more than to be left alone.

You are still single, despite offers from several suitors. You're still as fussy as ever. Perhaps you wear your independence as a shield?

You are also two months away from being thirty. You are excited but scared at the same time. You know you need to start living like an adult, though you don't really understand what that means. You also need to start looking for a place to celebrate, so get your fat arse moving. Where did you end up booking?

Ryan, I know today is tough for you and you feel sad for no particular reason. Never forget that you're surrounded by people whom you love and love you. Feel happy.

So a year on, what's your life like now? And are you still eating those damn gnocchi?


Yours,

Past Me.

Wet Dreams

Just when are you supposed to stop having wet dreams?

I ask this question because a friend asked me the very same. I was speaking to him the other day when I mentioned that I totally messed myself up after a particular dream I had one evening. I dreamt I was on a boat filled with hot, naked and very horny men. You know, the orgy ship, Lollipop.

“You still get those?,” he asked, looking absolutely surprised.

“Yes, apparently. Don’t you?”

“No. I stopped having them in my late teens.”

“Really? Well, I haven’t had one in a really long time. But I did last night.”

“That’s good, I guess. Lucky bridge.”

Well, I don’t think he actually said ‘bridge’ but something that sounds similar. I couldn’t hear properly, you see. He spoke rather softly then.

Anyway, back to my wet dream. Picture it: big boat, big guys and big, ah, personalities. I don’t really remember how I ended up on the ship, though I don’t think that matters much in the whole scheme things, but I do remember being on it and mingling with the nuded up passengers. All sorts were there: leather daddies, muscled jocks, skinny twinks and even spunky Mormons.

I made my way through the crowd, heading to the bar for a drink, when topless Latino deliciousness grabbed me.

“Hola guapo. Estoy caliente.”

Before I could say “no hablo Espanol”, he’d grabbed me and proceeded to stick his tongue down my throat. You don’t need a translator to know that means he was pleased to see me.

Some tonsil hockey, a bit of groping and then somehow we ended up on a bed; he on top, and me with my ankles behind my ears. Obviously, my hamstrings aren’t nearly as tight in my dreams as they are in real life. He continued to mumble something in Spanish and then kissed me some more. I noticed he had a pair of sparkling blue eyes, like the deep blue waters of the ocean below us, and long curly locks surrounding his face. His lips were luscious and his chin chiselled. Sweat poured down from his face all the way to his manly, bulging pecs. He wanted me badly.

With a cheeky smile and a knowing nod, he whipped off the tight pair of briefs that contained his manhood. And what a manhood! It looked like a baby’s arm. I closed my eyes. Held my breath and braced myself for the inevitable.

And just as I was about to receive what sure to be the best riding of my life, I suddenly found myself in a muddy field with my Latino suitor suddenly replaced by a donkey. The ship was gone and so was my hunk!

Not liking the fact that I was now riding it, the ass started bucking wildly and I ended up landing in the mud. Covered in dirt, I tried getting up but instead fell flat on my face. Then suddenly, and to my utter horror, I found the donkey standing over me, sporting a huge donger. That’s when I woke. Thankfully.

Absolutely relieved that I came to before the dream went any further, I soon became aware of feeling something weird below. With a caution, I stuck a hand in my pyjamas and sure enough, my fingers came back sticky. Holy bloody donkey.

So, let me ask again, just when are you supposed to stop having wet dreams?

Don't be fooled by that innocent, toothy smile.
This donkey means business.

In Which I Try To Be Understood (But Fail)

Many years ago, I made the most god-awful comment to a friend that resolutely established two things: one, my deft ability at firmly lodging my goddam feet (plural) in my big fat mouth, and two, cement the fact that I can be a foolish bastard.

Meeting said friend for coffee one afternoon, she arrived late and looked all forlorn. Making jokes at her propensity for not being on time and the seemingly endless excuses she often dished out, our conversation went something like this:

“Glad that you could make it.”

“Sorry, I’m late.”

“Where were you this time?”

“At the hospital.”

“Oh really? Shopping for a hospital gown?”

“No. I was visiting my sister.”

“Why? She’s not sick. That girl’s always complaining about something. She’s a hypochondriac. What she say she got this time? Cancer, I suppose.”

Silence. Followed by tears.

The following day, I went to the hospital and visited my friend’s sister. She was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She's now fully recovered.

I share this tale because I want you to know that I still clearly remember the day when I woefully let my mouth run away from me. No, after that day, I learnt my lesson; that when it comes to someone’s health, it’s not a joking matter.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been nursing a sore stomach. A temperamental belly is nothing new after being diagnosed with gastritis more than a decade ago. At times, eating proves to be a gastronomy spot of Russian roulette. Ingest the wrong thing and I’m in for hours of cramping, debilitating pain. But I’ve become pretty good at playing the game.

The pain I felt more recently, however, was different. Granted the usual symptoms were present – indigestion, spasms, lower back pain, lethargy – and I immediately took the same course of action – antacid tablets, antispasmodic pills, herbal tea, homeopathic creams – but nothing helped. By late afternoon of the attack, the pain moved to my lower right abdomen and I doubled over in pain every time pressure was applied in the area. Stubbornly, I refused to go to the hospital. The next day, I went to see a doctor whose indifferent bedside manner produced the brilliant diagnosis that it wasn’t a serious enough condition to warrant further tests, promptly prescribed pain killers and then sent me home for bed rest.

Clearly gutted (no pun intended) by the experience, I made the mistake of posting a status update on Facebook. Stupid. I don’t know what upset me more; the comments that others had left behind, dripping with jibes and jeers for my own supposed hypochondriac tendencies, or the fact that these were people who should know better. I decided that both were equally disappointing.

Granted, Facebook was not the best place to air my frustrations, but I needed to vent; and as impersonal as it may sound, they were real friends, real people. I assumed that I’d have at least some sympathisers amongst them. Obviously, my own sarcastic nature had bred some equally sardonic company. In the end, I decided to delete the whole thing.

Look, I don’t really know if I have a point here. I just know that for the very first time, I was genuinely scared that something seriously bad was going to happen to me. Even now, I still don't know what's wrong with me. I'm angry, frustrated and feeling completely misunderstood. It's all a big joke.

But I’ll tell you one thing: I'm scheduled for an ultrasound and gastrocopy exam this week. Once I get the results and they find that I have, oh say, stomach cancer, guess which foolish bastards will be sorry then?

Yes, that would teach them.

Prodigal Blogger

Hi. Is it safe to come out?

I'm back from the wilderness; hiding no longer. You see, my Witness Protection Program has finally ended. Jacko is dead. What, too soon?

So, I'll be the first to admit that I've been a little absent updating this blog – heck, completely neglected it, in fact – but I don't think the four of you who read it really minded.

But neglected is still what it was.

A lot of things have happened over the course of the ten months in which I was away. Too many to mention in one single post. Don't worry though; I'll catch you up over the course. Here, however, are a few things that I want to highlight:

I finally ended my "other" blog, after months of agonising and procrastinating over the decision. As of May this year, it's been laid to rest.

I'm now an uncle – a godfather, in fact – to a healthy and happy six-month old nephew. My sister's child brings me joy and happiness that I feel I shouldn't be entitled to. I'm absolutely in love with him.

My foray into media is slowly becoming more involved. I've gone from being a cast member to heading up my own TV show. And soon, I'll be producing my own segments as a roving reporter. Rove should quiver in his tiny boots.

And lastly, a confession. There is an ulterior motive to my return and it has to do with self-preservation. Over the last year, I have felt my writing ability slowly deteriorate and increasingly, I've become anxious that I will lose it completely. Those who know of the regular column I write for a magazine would probably notice that the articles have looked familiar. For good reason. I haven't written anything new for a long time and so have been rehashing old blog posts. It's my secret shame.

So here I am. Blogging again; forcing myself to get back on that proverbial horse (though between you and I, I'd prefer the cowboy). So far, the ride is proving a lot less bumpy than I'd expected.

But don't be too excited. I'm not really sure how long this phase will last. Gosh, that doesn't really instil much confidence or excitement, does it? But hey, it's a start, right?

The prodigal blogger is back... for now.