If God was a Villain, He'd be Me
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If I were a boy, I'd draw my gun, wear my breeches and chaps, saddle my horse, and ride off to the sunset. I'd paint the town red, smear it with booze. I'd save damsels in distress, tip my Stetson, and make them swoon with my sexy cowboy drawl. I'd cock my gun like they do in the Old West, control my whining horse with my shiny boot spurs, and pull hard on the reins. I'd be a pub patron who gets challenged, and I'd duel with my Single Action Revolver and win because I'd be the good guy with a cocky attitude. And I'd say things like "Over yonder, ma'am," and "We've howdied but we 'aven't shook."
If I were a boy, I'd be a pirate, and I'd be sassier and cooler than Jack Sparrow, and I'd say things like "Shiver me timbers," and "Arrr!" I'd be captain of a ship, The Seven Seas, and my crew wouldn't mutiny against me. I'd have two female pirates that are more notorious than Anne Bonny and Mary Read. I'd attend the Fourth Brethren Court, and I'd be the Pirate King because even Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Swan would vote for me, and I'd show Mr. Keeper of the Pirata Codex who's daddy. I'd have meaner enemies, and I'd have the key to Davey Jones' locker, because, really, when I rule, it'd be just a locker instead of the bottom of the sea.
If I were a boy, I'd wear 2039 Flex Revo sunglasses and drive a silver Maserati because I'd be the rich kid who has more money than he could count. I'd wear my white Lacoste Radiates with my Abercrombie & Fitch polo and Citizens of Humanity jeans on Mondays, then other designer wear the remaining days. I'd be greeting them "Morning, ladies," and they'd be all over me instead of the other way around. I'd spray FCUK Him instead of Armani cologne because I'm young and hip, and I'd sport my TAG Heuer Carrera because I'm cool like that.
If I were a boy, I'd play polo because it's classier than all the sports put together, except maybe soccer, which isn't really classy, but still sexy to watch. I'd have fan clubs, and groupies, and millions of websites dedicated to me. I'd be the endorser of every sport even when I don't play them because my face sells. I'd say stuff like "Have a dab at polo," or some other silly sounding English slang.
If I were a boy, I wouldn't waste my time watching chick flicks. I'd waste my money on Die Hard, Band of Brothers, Rambo, Terminator, Independence Day, and the occasional fucked up cartoons like The Simpsons and Drawn Together. I'd be drinking beer and hard liquor and not chic cocktails, and I'd be eating pizza the way it's supposed to be eaten. My usual lines would be "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," and "Who's the man? Who's the man?!"
If I were a boy, I'd be named Lorenzo (because I'd be a suave Italian and, when pluralized, my name would mean fame and victory), or Alexandre (because I'd be a snooty French and "a defender of men"), or Kaoru (because I'd be a noble Japanese and my name would mean fragrant), or Lewis (because I'd be a hardcore German and "a warrior"), or Datu (because I'd remain a proud Filipino and the name is honorably regal).
If I were a boy, I'd be a pirate, and I'd be sassier and cooler than Jack Sparrow, and I'd say things like "Shiver me timbers," and "Arrr!" I'd be captain of a ship, The Seven Seas, and my crew wouldn't mutiny against me. I'd have two female pirates that are more notorious than Anne Bonny and Mary Read. I'd attend the Fourth Brethren Court, and I'd be the Pirate King because even Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Swan would vote for me, and I'd show Mr. Keeper of the Pirata Codex who's daddy. I'd have meaner enemies, and I'd have the key to Davey Jones' locker, because, really, when I rule, it'd be just a locker instead of the bottom of the sea.
If I were a boy, I'd wear 2039 Flex Revo sunglasses and drive a silver Maserati because I'd be the rich kid who has more money than he could count. I'd wear my white Lacoste Radiates with my Abercrombie & Fitch polo and Citizens of Humanity jeans on Mondays, then other designer wear the remaining days. I'd be greeting them "Morning, ladies," and they'd be all over me instead of the other way around. I'd spray FCUK Him instead of Armani cologne because I'm young and hip, and I'd sport my TAG Heuer Carrera because I'm cool like that.
If I were a boy, I'd play polo because it's classier than all the sports put together, except maybe soccer, which isn't really classy, but still sexy to watch. I'd have fan clubs, and groupies, and millions of websites dedicated to me. I'd be the endorser of every sport even when I don't play them because my face sells. I'd say stuff like "Have a dab at polo," or some other silly sounding English slang.
If I were a boy, I wouldn't waste my time watching chick flicks. I'd waste my money on Die Hard, Band of Brothers, Rambo, Terminator, Independence Day, and the occasional fucked up cartoons like The Simpsons and Drawn Together. I'd be drinking beer and hard liquor and not chic cocktails, and I'd be eating pizza the way it's supposed to be eaten. My usual lines would be "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," and "Who's the man? Who's the man?!"
If I were a boy, I'd be named Lorenzo (because I'd be a suave Italian and, when pluralized, my name would mean fame and victory), or Alexandre (because I'd be a snooty French and "a defender of men"), or Kaoru (because I'd be a noble Japanese and my name would mean fragrant), or Lewis (because I'd be a hardcore German and "a warrior"), or Datu (because I'd remain a proud Filipino and the name is honorably regal).
If I were a boy, I wouldn't be me. And then I wouldn't like it so much.
~
"If God was a villain, he'd be me." – Benedict, Last Action Hero
"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker." – John McClane, Die Hard
"Who's the man? Who's the man?!" – Captain Steven Hiller, Independence Day
Paola @ 5:50 PM
Houston, We Have a Problem
Reality bites, and so we try to find a way to escape it, like plunging underwater to block the cacophony of disruptive noises of the world. The lap of waves dull the senses, and the whisper of the waters a soft cadence to our ears.
Underwater, there's no rush, the tide a slow creep compared to the erratic flow of blue on the surface. Movements are lethargic, a deliberate mockery of the fast-paced life on the street. Then we get lulled into a false sense of peace, away from the mess of everyday life. We miss the laughter evoked from facetious antics. We miss the anger of professors driven to prove things only they understand. We miss the smiles favored so easily by faces we have met in a past never to be forgotten. We miss the indignations of those we have wronged.
Underwater, there's no rush, the tide a slow creep compared to the erratic flow of blue on the surface. Movements are lethargic, a deliberate mockery of the fast-paced life on the street. Then we get lulled into a false sense of peace, away from the mess of everyday life. We miss the laughter evoked from facetious antics. We miss the anger of professors driven to prove things only they understand. We miss the smiles favored so easily by faces we have met in a past never to be forgotten. We miss the indignations of those we have wronged.
We escape the jangling reality, and we inadvertently miss out on life.
But we choose to stay underwater, deceived by the calmness of a fraud situation. Then we realize we can't forever run away, and the pain in our chests reminds us the need to draw air. We loathe the idea of having to forsake the comfort of tranquility, but we yearn to face new challenges. So we decide to follow the incessant tug to relieve our chests of the dull ache that has turned into a burning throb, even if it means meeting new hardships. Because no matter how much we ignore it, we know, deep down, that staying underwater will kill us.
So we kick our feet and flap our arms because, eventually, we'll have to come up for air.
So we kick our feet and flap our arms because, eventually, we'll have to come up for air.
Paola @ 1:03 PM