I am Dadge, to my family I am DJ, but I discourage anyone to call me that way, I personally believe that using initial names, aside from straight cut jeans, muscle shirts on twinks and putting on scarves in a frizzling tropical country, should be punishable by law, whereas "Jr and Sr'' should be accorded a corporal punishment. Dadge sticks, and often times it causes much ribbing in my daily grind, when ordering an overpriced espresso, the baristas will knowingly scribble "Doodge, Dutch, Butch" and the worst Ive gotten so far- "Doosh". It drives me to summon the fiercest lightning bolt and aim it at the man behind the counter. "Do I look like a breathing, caffeine-swigging vajayjay to you?".I am 5'11 and a little under 145 pounds.I would love to think that I am devastatingly handsome and humans -straight, slightly bent, moderately bent, severely bent and those as bent as Auntie Annes' pretzels, throw themselves at my feet, begging to be stepped upon but no, Im just your ordinary looking guy with enough facial hair to stuff a sofa. I hate sunlight so I'm kind of beige, and I am told not to walk in shorts for I can be a potential road hazard- I can blind motorists and during inclement weather, I can be a perfect receptors of lightning. I'm sorry to disappoint but I never use papaya soaps, aside from making your nipples sore, they render you the look of a weathered, overused tupperware, flaky. I once tried to work on my tan and ended up with a 2nd degree burn and I swear my body was emitting heatwaves that could roast a turkey for a week.
I embrace my pastiness.
My weighing scale at home is connected to most of my closest friends cerebellum. And when my weigh tips the scale a pound heavier, the implanted chips in their heads beep and send them the impulse to inundate me with gratuitous comments like ''obese, Judy Ann Santos and Monster Turd". My mom once told me. "Son, you dont have to drop any more pounds, if you go on living on parsley, you'll end up with two pelvic bones jutting out your hips area, not attractive at all!" It doesnt help that both of my brothers have an enduring love affair with weights and active sports, standing next to them, I look like a creature from different specie.
I have very few friends, it must be because I hate cutting a deal, or maybe I'm just an old-fashioned sociopath. My friends can win any contests, they don't have to lift a finger, they just make you see the futility of going againts them. They did their masters at "The Grinch' School of Meanness and Atrocity" in which I am the Headmaster.
My weight is fairly grounded. I am bugged.
I used to be of a hopeless romantic sort, who could identify himself with any songs, including Enya's. Who, in just passing mention of the word 'love', could blush and enthuse about the concept of destiny for the next few days. In the ineffable process of aging, my concept of romance has done an about face (insert your most horrid romantic disillusionments here). Instead of getting into a wistful state when seeing lovers trying to swallow each other up while exchanging inordinate amout of drool, I cant help but cringe. I still get in like with anyone who catches my fancy, but they are of fleeting type. They wouldnt even hear the end of it. This is my romantic civilization. Because some centuries ago, I was a raging troglodyte who had an overwhelming propensity to fall for the beasts.
I love to read but I don't read in public places. I can't. Reading is my metaphor of boffing around. You need to get a room or else you wont have a boner (unless you are a flaming exhibitionist.). But I always carry books nonetheless, it's an effective way to discourage people from barging into your personal space and when it fails to ward off creeps- hard bounds can be a good weapon to crack open skulls.
I blow my dough on books and I have no qualms about it. When in a bookstore, I get hopelessly hysterical my friends instantly disown me and love me at a distance of let's say 5 meters away. They can never understand the depth of my personal affair with books.
I talk in a peppy manner, and yes, I am verbose. There is no cure for a verbal diarrhea. You may use it againts me but my gibberish is replete with idiomatic expressions and esoteric vocabularies (no pun intended). My Australian friend, Mark, would always heckle me everytime I utter something he remotely knows about, asks me to say it again and then the definition followed by its usage. When the word count exceeds 5, he starts getting the Medusa glare and an occasional cussword. I dont mean to be pedantic and uppity but when you 'feel' the words, they just come out of your mouth in the most appropriate moment, because looking for any simpler word to make yourself less befuddling will just blow everything out of context- that, for me is pretentiousness.
