Mantra Part 2

A rehash of my old Mantra post. Under different circumstances this time.

First commandment when you’re ABOUT TO pursue a relationship with me.

1. Be intimidated, yes. I can do all sorts of crazy things to you. Call me ball-crusher, drama queen, enchantress, what have you. But thou shall NOT falter. No matter what.

I need to know…something. If you are that Superminion you claim to be.

Strawberry ice cream and other guilty pleasures aside, whenever somebody SCARES me, for some weird reason I end up hurting, and I become a walking disaster. I can’t really explain why I hurt, but I end up being on a self-destruction mode. I end up doing evil, cruel, unthought-of things.

I feel remorse after a while, though. And I hate myself for that.

I actually feel like shit, really. I know I can’t take things back, but don’t hate me. Please.

What Could Have Been, and Then Not.

Dear you,

I cannot do this. We cannot do this.

You have successfully disarmed me, stripped me naked. With what and how, I honestly don’t know. The last few nights have left me utterly overwhelmed. Vulnerable. I’m scared shitless.

Perhaps you think nothing of it; I don’t know what you’re thinking, really. But before this acquaintance gets complicated any further, please understand that I have to nip it at the bud before it blooms into anything and something I will no longer have any control of.

The last few days had me finding slowly reacquainted with the past’s painful shadow. You make me want to wear pink and giggle. Tolerate dickery and playfulness. Run barefoot through Freedom Park’s grassy field. Chain smoke and roll some joints of Sagada weed. Chug down a few bottles of beer in some dimly lit bar. Pout and rant and make pakipot like a 5-year old and still expect to be chased after a huge fight. Prove to you that I’m the coolest girlfriend you can ever have. You make me want to take care of you, to fuss over you, to be falsely mad at you so you will quit smoking. You make me blush unashamedly every time you catch me off guard. You make me realize what I have been yearning and missing out all this time – tenderness.

But I cannot allow her to resurface. She always gave everything she had, and when she did, she became self-destructive. What you have experienced in this brief encounter is a glimpse of a ghost, vainly trying to get out. What she doesn’t know is that she is dead.

You asked me that one thing that can make me truly happy. I think I can answer that now.

It’s coming into terms with myself, and living with the resolve that I will not allow myself to be that vulnerable and giving and stupid again.

I don’t know how I would live with myself after this, but I had a life before you. And I was fine with that. It was cold, lonely. But it made my heart intact, from breaking further from what remains of its shattered state. But you and your quiet strength make a mockery of what I have carefully crafted to protect myself all these years – trying to appear like I have it altogether, that I am strong, impenetrable. The Bitch Goddess.

I cannot, must not fall for you. And so forgive me for what I am about to do to you.

I’m walking away.

And this, perhaps, is the most selfish decision I have ever made. And I know I will regret it.

Take care, big guy. I could have almost loved you.


I’m supposed to be asleep by now. But no, my mind refuses to cooperate, thus this entry. It helps sometimes. I usually write late in the night when I can’t sleep. I’m running out of sleeping pills again, but I don’t want to take one now. Too late. I have to be up by 8 anyway. So that means by the time I’m finished with this entry and by the time I wake up, I’d have had 5 hours of sleep. Great. Sucks to be me.


Today was pretty mundane, if not boring save for one thing. You see, I’ve been in that “Me and You and Everyone We Know” kind of loop for a while. It’s getting pretty old, to be quite honest. I forgot how fun it is to talk to a random stranger. Interesting, even. Yes, I’m talking about you, Siomai.

I didn’t realize that some people, readers, voyeurs, minions, some of you are scared shit to talk to me. 

Why is that, I asked. I’m nice. I don’t bite. 

Ah, yes. The whole “mystery/dominatrix/Cleopatra/alpha-female” thing.

You’ve put me in a box, you fuckers.

Will you love me just the same if you found out that I’m just an act? Or if I’ve changed? Speaking of which, I remember somebody commented that I’ve changed. Don’t we all? Would you adore me less if I have? 

I’m a Leo. I bask in adulation. So yeah, give it to me. Now.




You know you are not yourself when you end up doing things that are unexpected of you, and having people calling your attention because of it. Case in point: this blog and my latest entries. Some SMSed and called me even, to ask why I’ve been writing, or in this case, haven’t been writing. I’ve been questioned about the authenticity of my entries as well. Oh please. I even credit the pictures I post here! Come now, I’m not that stupid. Anyway, my readers need to learn a thing or two, and this is my space, I can write my entries as lengthy as I want them to be. You can’t tell me what to write, or long I should write it. If you’ve got ADD, then it’s not my fucking problem. Go, leave, and stop coming back.

I’ve also got a serial comment-er/or (whatever) hounding almost each and every entry there is and left me some terribly, terribly bitter comments. Thing is, these comments, while derogatory and I’m sure were intended to piss me off, did not bother me at all. Surely by now I’m used to these things. I only got miffed when he corrected me on “light black”. I agree with you, it is definitely NOT a color, nor there are such words used in a string, so why the hell would I even use that? What’s worse, it’s not even written or used in that particular entry. Are you blind, bitter man? Surely you were referring to another blog?

Anyway, I thought of putting up a static disclaimer in consideration of those who come stumbling here, hoping to read some smut. I am, “The Bitch Goddess” after all, and its expected that I should be writing about really racy, exciting sexual accounts. So you’re disappointed I’m not Abby Lee. Does it mean because I don’t write about my encounters I’m a “half-baked” bitch? It’s not always about having sex beyond the borders of what is normal, usual, ordinary, you know. In my case, it is my state of mind, an attitude. In-your-face. Paris’ studded tank top illustrates it better.


To those who have been following me faithfully, by now you’ve noticed that I’ve never written anything close to erotica (‘cept one lousy poem in the past) and should have figured that I never will. And especially about my sexual encounters. Why is this? Well, as much as possible, I want to keep this blog as literary as I can while maintaining to leave out accounts of my sexual encounters, which is, surprising as it may sound to you, quite personal to me, no matter how random. I’m almost stripped bare here, with my soul out in the open, available for hounds to feed on me, so please, stop expecting. There’s an abundance of trash out there for you to feast on, go ahead and indulge yourself.

My patience and understanding is running thin, so don’t mess with me. Unfortunately, I’m not hard core right now. The reason why my entries are such lately is because I don’t want to write about what’s going on with me. In fact, I’ve driven away each and everyone who seemed to care for me. Somehow, them being around just wont do anymore. They can’t give me anything I need. And this fragile vulnerability is fucking me up. So, really, I don’t need your crap right now.

On Nuns, Prostitutes, Escorts and Ultimately, Bitches

My silence for the past few days is attributed to the fact that I was (and still am, actually) in a sort of financial bind. Something which I’ve never experienced before and to talk about it further would be in such poor taste. All I could say is that it’s bloody unpleasant as hell. I haven’t exactly resolved it yet, but hey, life is hard right now, and I am definitely fucking it.

And so, I was thinking, what if, what if, I pimp myself? Ain’t that grand? I’d probably work a mere night or two, at such an exorbitant price, and my problem is solved! Haha. RIGHT.

I was whining about this possible solution to The Vamp when she told me, “Hey, get this. P (another sorority sister) decided to become a nun. She has the calling.”


“Seriously????” I never thought someone close to me would become a *gulp* nun. But then, she’d be happier there, I think. It suits her well. She’s just the type.

“I just can’t believe it, though. I’m responsible for bringing it up. All this time, she was just waiting for a sign, and when I suggested it she took it as a sign,” The Vamp said, overwhelmed.

“Well, shouldn’t you be happy that you sort of helped her figure it out?” I asked.

“I know, I know. I just find it overwhelming, that’s all. What about us? Do you think we’ll ever become one?”

“Hahaha. You got to be kidding, right?”

“Why not? You’ll never know.”

“Well, this is a good thing for us. We have a spiritual adviser now. Oh, coz, you know, I think I’m beyond salvation. ”

“Hahaha. I still think you can be an adviser of a different sort. The “High Priestess of the Biatches” or something.”

Right. That could work. Goody. Now, back to my problem.

So I was thinking, I’d probably make a good prostitute. I used to loathe these women. With their cheap colognes and cheap makeup and cheap accent, they’re an easy target for my wrath. Their socio-economic background could be a factor, but it’s not that, actually. While some of them are exceptional–some men get lucky if they have intelligent ones, most are plainly mechanical and seriously DUMB. Men defined them to be as such. Men probably like them that way because they’re rid of senseless conversation and they could get right into action.

Okay, I’m definitely selling myself short.

How about as a high-class prostitute? Or an escort? Whatever. Buwayahman, I need your help on this. I can’t figure out the difference between the two. Are they still prostitutes but of a different league? Since I’m no movie star nor been in a porn film, I guess that doesn’t qualify me then, eh?

Bah. Labels. Who gives a fuck anyway?

Actually, I like the idea of a geisha with a Bitch Goddess twist. I’m not all about sex–that part is a given. That’s easy. And since I’m into S&M now, I’d probably charge extra. What makes me different though, is that I could carry a conversation. And a good one at that. I could match your wit and intellect and perhaps do an intellectual masturbation first (that’s what s&m is all about, anyway) and finish it off with mindblowing sex. And a cigarette.

Somebody told me that Filipinas will never make good escorts/prostitutes. When asked why, he said that they (prostitutes) are so gullible and are easily swayed by men who wait for them until their shift is over. That way, these men won’t have to pay for the required number of drinks while inside the club. For economical reasons that are beyond me, these Filipina prostitutes succumb to the cheap and sleazy and give the industry a bad name.

I, however, want to glorify it. I will teach these women to hold their ground, and learn to have dignity with their work. They will be sticklers for rules and manners. They will become learned in the arts, music and culture. They will be articulate. They will be mistresses of S&M. They will be definitely, a whole new breed (of bitches) apart.

And so, I am opening my…


I am sooo going to burn in hell for this.

Enrollees, anyone?