Little Rants of the Broken Mind

Love Sick Stories: TobyxMarco pt 1

I. Fucking. Hate. My. Life.

Don't get me wrong or anything. I am in no way suicidal or thinking in the lines of it. Way far from it, actually. That's my bestfriend Tris' job. He's no suicidal either, but push the wrong buttons and he'll waste no time and grab the nearest chair, tie a hangman noose like the boyscout he is, and hang himself like a piñata in a Mexican party.

Not that I am encouraging him--or anyone really--to kill themselves. No one wants that. Unless you are an utter douche. Which I can be sometimes, but that's beside the point. Irrelevant.

Anyways, guess where in the world is Toby Hart today, eh?

Goddamn Philippines. Where it's fucking hot. Like, Satan just farted flames and its heat touched all of the 7, 107 island. Seriously, this is a huge change from the arctic cold of London.

If there is an actual representation of your boyfriend, it would be the UK weather during winter. Cold. Sub zero cold.

(Whoever says that British people love the cold should go fuck themselves. They clearly have to stop believing in stereotypes. And the tooth faerie.)

And if there's an actual representation of the Philippines, it would be me. Because I am just so hot, I melt metals like they are butter.

I've never planned on going here in the Philippines for the winter break. Despite its amazing scenery and very awesome people, I'd rather spend the holidays alone in our mansion back in London, or spend it over with Tris' family. I'm welcome there always.

I wanted to catch up some sleep, maybe hang out with Tris and his sister Kayla, or bar hopping every other night and get wasted. But, no. Mother and Father had other plans.

Besides, Tris is in Belfast whilst the other members of the Drake-Gavin Family is in Paris.

I miss Harley, my little baby who happens to be a pug. He's the best. Unfortunately, the airlines wouldn't let me carry him all the time. I ain't gonna put my baby in that claustrophobia you call cargo. Harley deserves X-Men. It has to be First Class.

I groaned as I lower down my designer shades over my eyes, blocking the harsh sunlight. Thank gods I'm wearing like a total summer get up, or else I would be roasting here. Like how people in Twitter is roasting Azalea Banks.

To say that I am tired is like a major understatement. I just got dragged out of my bed in the middle of the night, shoved inside a small aeroplane for a fourteen hour flight, and cooped inside a car for another hour of driving. I wanted to sleep. But my bed's like 11,300 kilometres away.

Mother and Father owe me big-bloody-time.

The guards pushed the tall iron wrought gates, letting our little Hi-lux inside the mansion. It's not a mansion per se, more like a villa or farm house. Anyways, ours private house was in the middle of thia land, tall and intimidating. It was an antique ancestral home of some dead gobernador cillo--some sort of ruler from the Spanish colonial era or whatever. It was fashioned like how houses here in Cebu--or any place in this country--would look like during the Spanish regime.

The other kids here thought it was haunted. I think it looks awesome.
Tris would piss his pants if I ever let him stay here. Especially at night. He's a fucking cherry when it comes to horror stuffs and clowns. Yes. Never forget the clowns.

I remember him crying his lungs out when he saw Ronald McDonald the first time, and I was like, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" That's a story for another time.

Speaking of Tris. I whipped out my phone out of my pant pocket and sent him a quick text on iMessage.

Me: just arived. fucking fells like im shovd insde an oven --"