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I am reformatting this blog. I’m importing my Engrish over because I have found that the entries I’ve written on the other one I keep has transformed into lies by no one’s mistake but my own. Wait, scratch that, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice. But it had veered away from what I had intended to do with it. Funny it was called downtoatee (which, to be spot-on, should be ‘T’ instead of ‘tee’). It’s supposed to mean calling it exactly as it is – my emotions, my thoughts… everything I was without pretensions. Without lies. But alas, my... *ehem*… promiscuity wouldn’t let it be.

To be fair, my words were true the time I was writing them. And I fully intended to keep it that way but these things seem to meet its eventual demise without much conscious effort from me. My dick seems to think on its own. I can’t help but feel sometimes like it’s designed the way a compass is, although instead of pointing north, it points me to my next fuck.

With this blog, I’ll keep my Filipino to a minimum, too. My thoughts are composed in this language anyway (I say that in fear of being called Ingliserong Palaka) which makes it more comfortable for me put my words down in English. Or Engrish. Whatever.

Now I guess it makes you wonder what my other blog was about. You’re welcome to take a peek but my last entry there would be the very last. The plan is to keep it active, or at least in publication, until wordpress gets rid of it if they ever do that. For those of you too lazy to click the link, you may read below the introduction for that blog:

My name is Mikki. No, I did not make that up.

In seven weeks I will turn a year older, which I honestly don’t mind. It’s one more excuse to get drunk on wine and feel stupid after but not feel sorry for it. A one-night pass for bliss after a year full of hell. Birthdays.

So this year, I plan to celebrate with a special someone. A night out-of-town, probably on the beach with only the stars to witness my day in paradise, downing beers by the sand, a good dose of Marley and some organic… smores. A good plan. The only real problem is so far, Mr. Special Someone doesn’t exist. Talk about a predicament.

So this here is my companion; my cohort, if you will, as I go about finding the right person to celebrate my day with. You might think seven weeks is too short a time to find one. I think so, too. Truthfully, I don’t care if he shows up or not. At the very least, I have a challenge I’m faced with. And I’m not one to back out from challenges. This is going to be fun.

Let the hunt begin.

The morrow of the day I’m putting this up is going to be my birthday. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I have found no one to spend my birthday with. The beach getaway isn’t going to happen either. Job + cash constraints = objective fail. But I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all. During the course of the few weeks I tried executing the plan, I have met some people who were crazy enough to work with me towards the goal. I’ve gone out on dates, met some guys for keeps (if by other people, not by me), and had some sexual encounters that made me thank the cosmos I’m gay. Well, half and half. And that blog did well, too, in kicking me good in the butt to make me realize I’m a good catch (I allow you to laugh out loud on this one). Even better is that it made me muster courage to go after things (and by things I mean guys) I want. Not online but in the physical world. For that I give the blog and myself a pat in the back.

Finally, giving up the blog is not to say I’m giving up the search for the elusive Mr. Right, especially now I’m getting the hang of dating. They say, though, that it’s when you stop searching that Mr. Right comes knocking at your door. Well, I’m keeping the sex up. After all, Mr. Right may be the next guy I fuck with.

What do you think?