The response...

I had last second reservations how my bootleg blow up would be received by E. I envisioned two scenarios:

1. E sees her likeness compared to mine and comes to the sudden realization she is disproportionately hotter than me. She freaks out and spends out the rest of the weekend begging for scraps at the local In N Out. My attempts to woo her back to my apartment repeatedly fail until I create a Hansel and Gretel trail of animal style fries leading back to my front steps.

2. E is flootered (flattered/floored, yes this is my blog and I can make up words if I want to) by her sparkling doppleganger and graciously accepts. We celebrate with some bubbly and feed each other pita chips dripping in a diabetic envying combination of guacamole and whipped cream.

Drumroll, please.....





SUPPLIES!




She writes..."I suppose you will suffice for now...just kidding!"

So she is completely flootered and my hard work has paid off!

I was too excited to record the actual moment so yes, these pictures were staged several days after my proposal. I suppose if she had rejected my offer we would be seeing pictures of an unshaven despondent shell of myself, stoned and stewing in my own filth. It would've been more tragic and entertaining that way but oh well!

Doesn't she look hot in my oversized black Jordan hoodie?

I discovered this wonderful site three years ago. The Rasterbator creates huge, rasterized images from any picture. Upload an image, print the resulting multi-page pdf file and assemble the pages into extremely cool looking poster up to 20 meters in size!



Masturbate...err I mean, rasterbate me!

This is an ideal tool for anyone who wishes to profess their love by blowing up gigantic images of their unsuspecting significant other. It's also useful for erecting stalker shrines or brown nosing your narcissistic boss with an oversized homage honoring his unibrow.

In unfortunate cases, individuals succumb to the urge to rasterbate themselves:



The better(looking) half

Why, you ask?

My intentions are noble: My pixelated self is formally asking E out tomorrow night.

Why must I ask formally? In today's modern world, the line between relationship and casual is plagued by deception, misconception, and ambivalence. This confusion results in an endless cycle of manipulative chase-your-own-tail games and in most cases, one-sided heartbreak. Even in the most idealistic no strings attached arrangement something always ends up giving. Someone always wants more.

E has blessed me with the humbling experience of being on the short end of the stick of this ambiguous dilemma. Tonight, the madness ends!

I've presented my spitting image to her with the following caption:



She can respond by simply filling in the following bubble:




Tommorow I'll fill in the bubbles of her response. Stay tuned, stalkers!



I have waaay too much time on my hands.

Wtf is a 'ghi'?

Rub it in, why don't ya?

Expectations, expectations

"Failing to prepare is preparing to fail."
- B.

OK, so maybe John Wooden said that before I did, but E has no idea who he is so I will plant my flagpole and take credit.

I have begun my exhausting preparations for her visit. I would provide a detailed photographic step-by-step tour but I know the only person who actually reads this blog would see it and ruin the surprise :)

I included this warped picture which conveys the beautiful illusion that I tower over you like a headless behemoth. My massive Filipino arms dwarf your petite figure and you are utterly delighted by my ginormity.



"FEE-FI-FOH-FUM!"

Eat that, Felipe.

Countdown: 8 days 9 hours 19 minutes 22 seconds

Quick, what's eleven minus two?

C'mon who are we kidding? We both knew when she demanded an update she was going to get one. Tomorrow, you say?

*E cracks whip and I instinctively grab my buttocks*

Your wish is my command.

I'm beginning to question E's simple math skills -- she claims she has 12 days of freedom left but February 11th is definitely 9, not 12, days away. Is this fuzzy math her subconscious begging her to come to her senses or is it merely the result of her underfunded New York public school education?



E's 2nd grade classroom. It was either elementary arithmetic textbooks or patching up the gaping asbestos-laden ceiling tile hanging over little E's desk.

Do I believe the next nine days are a metaphorical doomsday clock? Is the long minute hand rotating at an abnormally frenetic tempo, hastily leaning on the stubborn hour hand till it finally clunks another agonizingly measured moment closer to the point of no return?

Not for me. I'm so close to having A-list celebrity caliber arm candy I can taste it! I'm celebrating every passing nanosecond as another stride forward in my gold medal victory lap.



If I must choose which uber-attractive hottie I closest resemble, I choose Kim Jong Il's cronie on the way left...

Ah, yes, hard-earned victories are the sweetest thing a man can taste (and this tastes like a combination of Rolo-flavored guacamole dip!)

Fear not, America. I bring rugged adonis trophy-husband worthy physical beauty to the table also:



Hollywood, here I come.

Why wasn't I content with "f-buddy" label? The universal dude rule book states that if a disease-free female that isn't your ex-girlfriend, best friend's girlfriend, or cousin offers the coveted no strings attached relationship, you shut up and take it.

The answer is simple: I wanted more. I've never considered myself prone to fall into a blind spell of infatuation. I never saw myself doting unspeakable adoration on a girl who discusses her bowel movements in excruciating detail. Yet here we are, and you know what? There's no place I'd rather be.

There's a certain vulnerability I've rediscovered recently. While this vulnerability often leads jilted lovers down a seemingly never ending path of perpetual uncertainty, I believe the blind pursuit of love (or like :)) is what truly separates us from the beasts.

So what happens when the clock strikes midnight? For me, the pursuit is far from over. It's only begun.