My Tumblr is actually a blog.
It’s shitty, but it has actual content.
Shitty content.
But still content.
The content can vary infinitely, but here is what my blog…
IS NOT.
*ahem*
MY BLOG IS NOT A:
collection of reblogs upon reblogs,
Nutella porn,
design student orgasms,
(http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DesignStudentsOrgasm)
pictures of naked people
with half-clever, half-pathetic captions
that talk about being naked
did I already mention nakedness?
food porn,
Harry Potter and/or Sherlock animated .gifs.
animated .gifs of people
mouthing a piece of text
that’s written at the
bottom of a picture
animated .gifs of cats hugging
anything that starts with “reblog if”
animated .gifs of grown men in unintended homoerotic situations
especially if they’re best friends
(seriously, stop…. just… NO.)
I could go on really.
—-
and LAST but not LEAST:
posts about:
being free-spirited
or being a woman (OOH)
or being a homosexual (OOOOH)
or being a bisexual (OOOOOOH GAHDDAMN)
or being young (SERIOUSLY WHY AREN’T YOU OFFENDED YET)
or being the unique snowflake that you are (KILL YOURSELF)
or loving someone
or missing someone
or having your heart broken
or not knowing what love is
or being lost in your life
or not knowing if you could be something more than your
misguided, delusional, little self
or realizing that you have nothing more
than a shitty smorgasbord of a website
you call a BLOG
with a puke-like arrangement of photos
animated .gifs
and pictures upon pictures of rainbow-colored cupcakes
because you’re too busy talking about how life is
on your Tumblr
whether how awesome it is
or how sucky it is
or how confusing it is
to actually go out there and live it
because words cannot stress this enough
and no amount of Helvetica on vintage photos
can say this any clearer
and drill this into your thick skull
that THIS
IS NOT
YOUR LIFE.
……..
…..
..
…..
…………
Where was I?
Oh right.
My blog, I swear this is the last one…
…is mine.
I can write, or post, or take pictures of anything I want.
My blog is mine.
Your blog should be yours too.
But is it?
Wow. I just offended a million people right there.
Sorry.
…
…
-Trevor
(May 3, 2012)
PS:
Actually, no. I’m not sorry. Fuck you. :P
PPS:
And that was the shittiest post I have ever made.
These are the top 10 songs I listen to from beginning to end on my iPhone according to iTunes. I know. I was shocked too.
1. Katy Perry - Firework (1809 times)
2. Rammstein - Du Hast (1791 times)
3. S.O.S. - Collie Budz (1761 times)
4. Nickelback - Burn It To the Ground (1705 times)
5. Lights - Ice (1688 times)
6. Owl City - Fireflies (1590 times)
7. Taylor Swift - Mine (1543 times)
8. Far East Movement - Rocketeer (1542 times)
9. Sam Tsui & Christina Grimmie - Just a Dream (1539 times)
10. Barlow Girl - Beautiful Ending (1495 times)
I AM SO FRIGGIN MAINSTREAM. HOLY SHIT. :O
Seriously? I listened to Firework 1809 times?!? And that’s just listening it from beginning to end!! GAHD. DAYUM.
I mean, it’s a good song and all, Katy Perry’s… well, OK.
Actually, the only one of these songs I really really REALLY REALLY REALLY like is “Ice” by Lights.
But seriously? WOW. Not one of my top 10 songs are even on this list! Not even “One” by Metallica or “November Rain” or “Freebird” or “Stairway to Heaven” or “Chop Suey!”.
I HAVE SHAMED MY ROCK GODS.
But all that aside, I guess it’s a matter of how catchy a song is, or rather, how willing I am to listen to a song from beginning to end. When I listen to “One”, the live version rather, I tend to skip the long-ass crowd cheering part in the end.
Maybe if iTunes counted the songs I actually SELECTED and not just the ones I listened to from beginning to end, maybe this list would have been much different.
I actually do follow mainstream music, and I actually like a lot of the recent trendy artists, like Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Adele, LMFAO to name a few.
But wow. These songs are obviously sending subliminal messages to my brain.
Well, in all truthfulness, I like mainstream and obscure music equally as well as I do new music and old music. I don’t consider myself a mainstream sheep nor do I see myself as a counter-cultural connoisseur. I read independent internet webcomics while listening to Lady Gaga’s albums. I have watched both (500) Days of Summer and Love Actually. I drink Starbucks and cheap instant vending machine coffee. I get sick of mainstream sheep and hipsters at different times, in equal amounts.
I guess it’s just a matter of balance. And choosing what you truly like and want to call yours.
But I guess mainstream songs are just easier listening.
After all, when your iPhone is on shuffle, and a familiar Katy Perry or Taylor Swift hit single comes on, it’s kinda hard to press “skip”.
And besides… TGIF is WAAAAAAYYYYY BETTER than Firework. :P
-Trevor Viloria, Dec 2011
Here’s a quick poem I wrore in about 15 minutes.
DISCLAIMER:
Any relation to any real life people is coincidental.
Not that I know what being in love is like anyway… *whistles*
I’ll Always Have Tomorrow
by Trevor Viloria
I remember the day you first looked at me
when you noticed me for the first time.
You chose me from a crowd of
handsome jerks
perfect douchebags
and selfish playboys.
I was just another loser
who had nothing going for him.
And you chose to love me
the man who had nothing to give you
but himself.
My life was all about you
everything you are was music to my ears
your phone number’s a catchy tune to me
every time I dial it.
Your voice on the other end’s a symphony
a ballad of sweet words
telling me how your day was
and the crescendo’s your “I love you, baby”
right before we hang up.
It worried me a little
that you started to get fed up with me
how loudly I blew my nose in public
how much money I wasted on useless things
Don’t get me wrong.
It annoyed me too.
How easily you got mad
at every little thing I do.
How critical you were of me.
I’m sorry I’m not handsome
I’m sorry I don’t have the Matt Damon looks
other luckier guys seem to have.
I’m sorry that every photo of us
looks like a scene from Beauty and the Beast.
I’m sorry I’m not strong.
I asked my buff friend
to carry you when you hurt your back
I was afraid of dropping you and breaking your neck.
I’m sorry I’m not charming.
I can’t play guitar.
I can’t sing.
I can’t write songs.
I can’t even rhyme a simple love letter for you
or cook you breakfast.
Eventually, we were fed up with each other.
But I saw it as a test.
I never thought of leaving you.
I stuck around. Because I promised I would never leave you.
No matter how much you made me angry.
Because I loved you.
You saw it is as a reason.
…to spare yourself.
It was a cold December morning.
We were walking on a paved road.
We were the only ones there.
The day you said you loved me
for the last time.
And then you told me it was over.
And left me alone in that road
not knowing whether to run away
or chase after you.
So I just stayed there for a while.
And cursed myself.
Not even a week had passed.
A line of guys were waiting
…just like that Mr. Big song…
“wanting to be the next to be with you.”
You knew the pain of change
of moving on
of not knowing where to go
but only I… knew the pain…
..of once again..
being alone.
Having nothing.
I couldn’t blame you
for leaving me.
After all, my shortcomings finally caught up with me.
You were no longer happy.
But now, nearly a year has passed.
I still remember your phone number.
You never bothered to memorize mine.
I still remember your college ID number.
You never bothered to memorize mine either.
I still remember every single thing
about every single member
of your favorite boy band.
Yet you never let me share with you my favorite song in the world.
Because it was, as you said
“too loud”.
I realized then
that I was happy
because I loved you.
Not because you were pretty.
Or charming.
Or creative.
You never appreciated the little things
all the little sacrifices I made for you.
Waiting for you ‘til the dead of night
so I could take you home after your rehearsals
only for you to tell me
“You can’t be here. My parents will see you.”
Like the time it was raining,
you broke the straps on your slippers,
and had to talk barefoot.
But since I couldn’t carry you,
I instead, took my sandals off
and walked on the rough gravel barefoot with you.
And when we got back to my place,
I hid my dirty, bleeding feet from you.
And instead, washed your feet instead
with the towel I used to wipe the raindrops from your face.
And I was heartbroken
because you took every sacrifice I made for you
and threw it away
like a toy, so easily replaced.
But I no longer resent you.
Because making sacrifices for someone like you
because I loved you
gave me joy like any other.
Again, I can’t blame you.
It’s our nature after all
to chase after happiness.
I can’t be angry anymore.
Because until now
I thank you
for loving me
for recognizing my worth as a person
when I never recognized it myself.
Thank you for teaching me
how wonderful love is
and I should never shy away from it.
You are someone else’s now.
The gift that is you is now his to enjoy.
The symphony that was you
has a new audience.
I have but my memories
and a few photographs I secretly kept
(though you told me to get rid of all of them).
But aside from that…
I have nothing. Nothing at all.
Not a text message telling me “everything will be okay.”
Not a phone call telling me how amazing I am.
Not even a warm pair of arms to hold me
while I’m shaking and crying
from the pain and torment I’ve endured for months without you.
But every time I cry myself to sleep
because you aren’t there to lull me to sleep
with your masterpiece, “I love you, baby”
and your hit single, “goodnight”
and who could forget the B-side, “see you tomorrow.”
I still manage to fall asleep.
And when I wake up, the sun rises.
Every. Single. Time.
And that’s when I realized that…
…no matter what.
I’ll always have tomorrow.
-Trevor Viloria, 2011
YOU can be accepted by acting like someone else.ARE
Or you can be ridiculed for what you really .You can be WHATEVER everybody says you should be.Or YOU can be yourself and be content.THINK
You can say what you and be criticized.YOU
Or can forever be silent.REALLY
You can be outspoken, risk being hated.ARE
But if you’re outspoken, you will be seen for what you truly .
We all write from what we know.
Would it have mattered if I presented it as
“The Park Bench”, a film written and directed by Robert LaRovio
instead of
“The Park Bench”, a film written and directed by Trevor Viloria?
But to answer your question… yes. It is. But my life isn’t just “my” life. My life includes the lives of my friends, my family, my mom, cousins, uncles and aunts, grandparents. Close friends. Not-so-close friends. People who inspire me. People I love. People I hate. People who love me. People who hate me. People who have broken my heart. People who have saved my life with friendship.
All of them. :)
Oh dear, it has been a while hasn’t it? It seems that I ended up breaking my blogging habit. Well, here’s to hoping I don’t break it again. After all, blogging keeps me sane, and keeps the creative juices flowing.
So without further adou… adeu… adoo… INTERRUPTION,
here’s the exciting conclusion to my epic Starbucks saga.
LAST TIME…
…
ON THE INCREDIBLY IDIOTIC EXPLOITS OF TREVOR
…
I finally find a new name for myself.
An ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill name.
Common enough to spell,
uncommon enough to summon a smile from the average hot chick.
“DAVID.”
And then the barista FUCKS it all up. Aaaaand, there goes the F-bomb.
I stoop to lower lows every day.
Same time, next week, I post a picture of me naked.
…
EW.
Well anyway,
it’s been about a year since the barista misspelled David. It didn’t take long for me to ignore the situation and just go with the flow. I continued to use David for months.
Until earlier this year.
I realized that I wanted to challenge your average barista once again.
Who am I to judge the average nominal knowledge of people who work at Starbucks?
So I began to use my actual name again.
Oh… wait.
You know, it’s kinda like having Alzheimer’s really.
Or being retarded. Aaaaaand there goes my political correctness.
I used my name many times before. Instead of Trevor…
…like bootlegged DVD covers which *almost* but not quite get the title of the movie right…
…I get bootlegged versions of my name.
Rendering my incredibly sexy name cheap…
…like a daytime hooker, with a REALLY sexy name.
Like “Lady Stellar”.
I mean, wouldn’t you kill to just say “I just slept with.. wait for it.. LADY STELLAR. Oh yeah. I just did. Like last night. She practically PAID ME.”
Of course, this would be after you have slept with a 55 year old hooker with one boob bigger than the other, and with a vagina resembling a veranda curtain…
…and with STD’s thought to be extinct…
…and instead of sleeping with her, you spend all night
crying to her about how your wife left you
for your old college best friend
because he’s much more successful
despite his smaller penis,
because the good lord knows bitches love money…
…and how Lady Stellar’s thighs grow like our national debt…
…you just go in there…
…forget all your troubles…
…ravage the hell out of that daytime hooker.
OH WAIT.
WHERE WAS I.
SHIT.
I forgot where I was going with this.
Wow.
I’m really disgusting.
You know what else is disgusting? Chlamydia.
It’s just. You know. Gross.
I mean, not as gross as a leg abscess..
..I mean those things are just ridiculous.
Oh wait.
DAMMIT.
I forgot what I was talking abou- OH YEAH. Starbucks.
I started using my name again.. and here are some recent photos of the same drink I’ve been getting for a while now. A venti double-shot espresso frap.
So I tried saying my name like usual. CHREVUR.
The barista looked at me all quizically… and repeated the same..
..exact..
..thing..
CHREVUR!!
Same sound, same everything.
I GOT IT.
HOLY SHIT.
SAYIN’ MY NAME LIKE A BAWS.
And then the refreshing beverage arrives…
Apparently I’m French now.
…
So I try again another time.
This time, I meant business.
See, I just came home from class.
I still wore my college ID around my neck like a nerd.
Yah, ayt, I show this barista dawg my ID, chyeah.
..why did just..
…
…
Nevermind.
Anyway, I showed him my ID. Pointed to my first name.
It was right there.
You could not POSSIBLY get this wrong now.
Little did I know, not only were baristas STUPID..
..they were also BLIND.
Apparently, that little plastic flap holding the ID into the ID holder
was blocking the T on the TREVOR, clearly printed there.
Even then, the T was still visible, right?
RIGHT?!?!!?
…
SON OF A BITCH.
Okay.
Okay.
There has to be some way to do this right.
I showed them my ID, and they can’t read… okay.
That’s okay.
I mean, how smart do you have to be to work at Starbucks anyway?
(Oooh, burn.)
Okay.
So this time, I get all serious.
No more jokes.
I say my name.
AS CLEAR AS I CAN.
TREVOR.
WITH A FILIPINO ACCENT.
…and then I get all phonetic and shit…
TANGO
ROMEO
ECHO
VICTORY
OSCAR
ROMEO.
Spelling my name like a baws.
Oh yeah.
And then the barista looked at me..
and made this face.
I was a little nervous.
…
But it was okay.
I spelled it out using that phonetic code thing.
It could not possibly fail now.
…
After looking at my receipt, I realized that the barista just shook his head.
And then I got my beverage.
Here it is.
HERE IT IS.
OH MY GOD.
…
HE..
…
…
GAVE UP…
…
…
THE END.
-Trevor
(June 22, 2011)
Because I wanted to smell like Friday all weekend long. :P
LAST TIME…
…
ON THE INCREDIBLY MUNDANE ADVENTURES OF TREVOR
…
MY NAME IS NOT “DREBOR”.
…
…
Calm down, Trev. This will be the first and only time this happens. If not, then it will be rare at most… if I’m careless.
…
This won’t happen again.
…
*I GO TO STARBUCKS AGAIN*
BARISTA: Welcome back to Starbucks!
TREVOR: Hi! I’d like to order.
BARISTA: What would you like to order, sir?
TREVOR: I’d like a grande mocha frapuccino.
BARISTA: Anything else, sir?
TREVOR: I’d also like a waffle.
BARISTA: Anything else, sir?
TREVOR: That’s all.
BARISTA: May I have your name?
…
OKAY. This Barista sure was drawn mighty similar to the previous Barista, but I can assure you, this is a different guy. Different Barista.
But yeah, I realize that Trevor is a pretty uncommon name, especially here. After all, I’m the ONLY Trevor I know.
…
TREVOR: TTTTTT-REVOR.
…
NOTE: THE EMPHASIS ON THE “T” SOUND.
…
BARISTA: Excuse me?
TREVOR: T…T-T-TRREVVORR.
BARISTA: Thank you sir. Please wait.
…
*3 MINUTES LATER*
…
BARISTA: Mocha frap and waffle for T—!
TREVOR: YUM!!
…
…
NAME ON CUP: “TEBOL.”
…
…
OKAY… THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME.
SRSLY.
…
*I GO TO STARBUCKS AGAIN*
…
BARISTA: May I have your name?
…
Hmm… this Barista seems a little more hardworking than the others. He made sure everything was correct. He even asked me if I wanted skim or whole milk on my frapuccino. Talk about DETAILED!
Okay. I’ll say my name CLEARLY, with my FILIPINO ACCENT.
…
TREVOR: TRREVVOORRR.
BARISTA: DRE…?
TREVOR: No, no, “T” as in “tango”.
BARISTA: Okay sir. Please wait.
…
*3 MINUTES LATER*
…
…
NAME ON CUP: “TREBLE”
…
…
*I GO BACK TO STARBUCKS AGAIN*
…
TREVOR: TRREVVOORRR.
BARISTA: JAY-BORE?
TREVOR: TTRREEVVOORRR!!!
BARISTA: ROBERT?
TREVOR: TRE…VOR!!!!!!!!!!
BARISTA: DAVID?
TREVOR: YES. DAVID.
…
NAME ON CUP: “DAVID”
…
…
Oh well. At least they spelled it right.
…
And they spelled “DAVID” right EVERY SINGLE TIME!
I found the perfect fake name! DAVID.
DAVID.
DAVID.
DAVID.
…
*STARBUCKS AGAIN*
…
BARISTA: May I have your name?
TREVOR: David.
BARISTA: Thank you, sir!
…
*3 MINUTES LATER*
…
NAME ON CUP: “DAVIS”
…
OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
…
TO BE CONTINUED…
…
-TREVOR
(MAY 6, 2011)
After a long day of simply existing, I always enjoy a nice beverage at the local Starbucks.
I enjoy coffee-flavored things, especially coffee-flavored dairy-based drinks.
I don’t drink coffee myself unless it’s an emergency.
So what brings me back to Starbucks to waste my precious money on? Why of course, their patented Frapuccino! I’ve been drinking it since I was 11. It’s DEE-LEE-SHEE-YOOZE-A-MUNDO!! :D
However, ever since my mom decided that I should go to the counter myself like a big boy, I found out that ordering a nice refreshing Grande or Venti a much more complicated and tongue-twisting gauntlet of a clusterfudge than it appears to be.
FILIPINO BARISTAS DON’T KNOW BOUT MAH NAME.
BY TREVOR
Here’s how it went down at first:
BARISTA: Welcome to Starbucks!
TREVOR: Hi! I’d like to order.
BARISTA: What would you like to order, sir?
TREVOR: I’d like a grande mocha frapuccino.
BARISTA: Anything else, sir?
TREVOR: I’d also like an oatmeal cookie.
BARISTA: Anything else, sir?
TREVOR: That’s all.
BARISTA: May I have your name?
*DUN*
…
*DUN*
…
*DUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNN*
…
And here is where my own personal purgatory begins. Where my identity is so mercilessly questioned and my whole being is thrown into a boiling, swirling, pressure cooker of confusion, where the BEEF STEW OF EVIL IS BEING OH SO SLOWLY COOKED TO PERFECTION.
…
TREVOR: Trevor.
…
Now, there’s something you have to understand about Filipinos. We have a very distinct “Filipino accent”. Our P’s and F’s are interchanged, our R’s are very hard, and our vowels are all messed up.
However, I pronounce my name correctly. “CHRE-VUR” with the U sound the same as the U in “bUrn”. Not “TRREH-VORE” or “TRRE-BORE” or “TREEVOR” or “TREEVERR” like 99% of Filipinos who butcher my name so bad it makes me hate myself a little more each day.
I mean, “TRREH-VORE” is perfectly FINE. Even for a FILIPINO ACCENT, it’s FINE. But still, almost nobody says it that way, much less the correct “CHRE-VUR” way of speaking it.
Well anyway, back to the story. I say my name the way I’ve said it all my life. “CHRE-VUR”.
…
BARISTA: Excuse me?
TREVOR: CHRE-VUR.
BARISTA: GERE..BEAR?
TREVOR: CHRE… VUR…
BARISTA: JEH-BEL?
TREVOR: …TRRREEE-VVVOHHRRRRR..
BARISTA: AAHHH.. I get it. I get it.
TREVOR: *sigh of relief*
…
…
*3 MINUTES LATER*
…
…
BARISTA: Frap for DREHBOOR!!
TREVOR: Is that supposed to be me?
…
…
*I TAKE THE CUP*
NAME ON CUP: “DREBOR”
THEN I THOUGHT,
“OH WELL…
THE GUY WAS PROBABLY JUST A RARE CASE OF THE NAME-IGNORANT…
THIS WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN…”
…
…oh it was just beginning.
…TO BE CONTINUED…
…
-TREVOR
(MAY 5, 2011)
This is a puddle on my bathroom floor. If your imagination needs a little tweaking, I say it looks like a cat of some sort. A jumping cat.
This puddle has been appearing on my bathroom all week. I took a picture of it (the picture above) because I thought it looked kinda cool. It all started when I was taking a crap, then I noticed the little cat-shaped puddle on the shower floor. Pretty cool, I thought.
And then it started appearing. Again. And again. Of course, with all my scientific mind, I can explain the phenomenon as simply a cat-shaped area on the tile is surrounded by a cat-shaped hydrophobic ring caused by my oily feet or something like that. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little elevated… AGH.
Science is boring.
AN INVESTIGATIVE STUDY WHERE IN A BORED GUY FINDS OUT WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HIS BATHROOM
BY TREVOR
OBSERVATION:
THERE IS A CAT-SHAPED PUDDLE ON THE SHOWER ROOM FLOOR.
PROBLEM:
WHAT PROBLEM??? IT LOOKS AWESOME.
METHODOLOGY:
TAKE A BATH EVERYDAY. (OR AT LEAST TRY.) OBSERVE BATHROOM FLOOR AFTER BATHING. THEN OBSERVE FLOOR FOR ANY SIGNS OF A CAT-SHAPED PUDDLE.
RESULTS:
Thursday - first sighting of puddle, during an anal evacuation
Friday - second sighting of puddle, after bath
Saturday - did not bathe, but did notice cat-shaped puddle while cleaning up vomit after drinking binge the previous night
Sunday - did not bathe, forgot to check if cat-shaped puddle is there
Monday - bathed in the morning, the cat-shaped puddle is still there
Tuesday - bathed in the morning, the cat-shaped puddle is still there
CONCLUSION:
MY BATHROOM IS HAUNTED.
See? Who says the Scientific Method doesn’t go with EVERYTHING? Well, it seems like my bathroom is haunted by a cat-puddle. Oh well. Hey, I feel a piss coming along. BRB.
…
…
…
After taking a leak, I wet the shower floor and waited for the excess water to go down the drain. And then, just like that, it was gone. The cat-puddle was gone…
Oh well. You never realize something is totally awesome until it’s gone. And then you realize how much time you wasted looking at bathroom puddles.
I will miss you, Puddles the cat. I never had a cat in my life. I’m not really sure if you count, but I will still miss you. You will never be forgotten.
R.I.P. PUDDLES THE BATHROOM CAT.
(2011-2011)
“I’m sorry you had to see me naked, buddy.”
…
…
Nothing in life is permanent. We are but puddles on our bathroom floor. Though we may change form, from cat, to indistinct blob… as long as we take a bath, we can, er… clean, for the good of mankind…? METAPHOR FAIL.
-TREVOR
(MAY 4, 2011)
