I can't stop partying. I can't even blog anymore, and when I do, it is no longer about the balut I ate for breakfast or my Kuya Bodoy's man-boobs, its about the night I went out and did something stupid.

Maybe my friend Andrew was right, he said I was going through a quarter-life crisis. Maybe my Uncle Skip was right, he said I had post-traumatic stress disorder after my mom's stroke.

Or I could be an alien from another planet who possessed my mom's only child at the age of 4, but forgot all about it's mission to take over the world because of my mom's salty-ass adobo that gave it a brain hemorrhage.

But after being couped up in a house for a year and a half, deprived of mangoes and shrimp paste, the alien within me is ready to commence with a job it came to finish. And that job is to either take over the world via 4 chilled shots of Don Julio, or to dance weekend nights away with women I don't know. Either way, taking over the world isn't going to be easy.

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