According to my Nike+ SportBand, I lose around 230 calories when I run. Knowing that number, it’s totally had an affect on my outlook of food.

Now when I look at that ooey gooey icing goodness on warm, fluffy, freshly baked Cinnabon cinnamon rolls I think to myself, “That’s like 4 miles worth of calories…”

I really don’t want to run that much…

(Good thing I still have cheat days. )

Something bad happened at work the other day. A big folder for one of our projects was deleted. Nobody knows how, but it just magically disappeared. The backups we have of that folder also disappeared. Months of man-hours, by multiple coders, just went bye-bye.

Fuuuuuuck.

But wait, there’s some good news and bad news.

Good news. There was one sole surviving backup, tucked away safely on an old server.

Bad news. The backup is over three months old.

We’ve employed the services of a data recovery specialist (the same kind of forensics that the CIA and FBI use). But that shit is hella expensive and can take a few days. Even then, 100% data recovery is not realistic.

Luckily, we have notes, bits and pieces of our work on our personal computers. It’ll take a few days, but we’ll be able to recover.

The point I’m trying to make here is the importance of backing up your shit. And no, I’m not just talking about your work, mp3s and porn. I’m talking about the important shit like your digital photos.

A few months ago I read someone’s Facebook status message that said, “[I'm] depressed cuz my computer died and lost all my photos.”

Work can be redone. Mp3s can be re-downloaded. And porn really isn’t that important.

But those photos you’ve been taking on your digital camera of all your since high school — shit like your graduation, your wedding and the birth of your first born — are absolutely priceless. Photos are something that should last for the rest of your life. Something that you can show to your children and your children’s children. Not backing up your stuff is just as bad as taking all of your parents old photo albums, putting them out on the sidewalk and hoping nothing bad happens to them. That’s just retarded.

And to those of you who don’t know, lemme tell you something about hard drives — they will die on you. 100% guaranteed. The same way that a car engine will break down completely.

So please, do yourself a favor. Buy an external hard drive and use some kind of backup software. Or use an online backup service like Mozy.com (secure, unlimited space for just $5/month).

I use both.

Been recently dealing with this kind of client at work….it hasn’t been a fun experience…

Shae Allen’s blog: If Architects Had To Work Like Web Designers

This seems a little too appropriate since I’m currently ending a really terrible client relationship with an architect, but I thought other designers might enjoy. I’m sorry if this seems spammy, I really needed to share with people who understand.

Dear Mr. Architect:

Please design and build me a house. I am not quite sure of what I need, so you should use your discretion. My house should have somewhere between two and forty-five bedrooms. Just make sure the plans are such that the bedrooms can be easily added or deleted. When you bring the blueprints to me, I will make the final decision of what I want. Also, bring me the cost breakdown for each configuration so that I can arbitrarily pick one.

Keep in mind that the house I ultimately choose must cost less than the one I am currently living in. Make sure, however, that you correct all the deficiencies that exist in my current house (the floor of my kitchen vibrates when I walk across it, and the walls don’t have nearly enough insulation in them).

As you design, also keep in mind that I want to keep yearly maintenance costs as low as possible. This should mean the incorporation of extra-cost features like aluminum, vinyl, or composite siding. (If you choose not to specify aluminum, be prepared to explain your decision in detail.)

Please take care that modern design practices and the latest materials are used in construction of the house, as I want it to be a showplace for the most up-to-date ideas and methods. Be alerted, however, that kitchen should be designed to accommodate, among other things, my 1952 Gibson refrigerator.

To insure that you are building the correct house for our entire family, make certain that you contact each of our children, and also our in-laws. My mother-in-law will have very strong feelings about how the house should be designed, since she visits us at least once a year. Make sure that you weigh all of these options carefully and come to the right decision. I, however, retain the right to overrule any choices that you make.

Please don’t bother me with small details right now. Your job is to develop the overall plans for the house: get the big picture. At this time, for example, it is not appropriate to be choosing the color of the carpet.

However, keep in mind that my wife likes blue.

Also, do not worry at this time about acquiring the resources to build the house itself. Your first priority is to develop detailed plans and specifications. Once I approve these plans, however, I would expect the house to be under roof within 48 hours.

While you are designing this house specifically for me, keep in mind that sooner or later I will have to sell it to someone else. It therefore should have appeal to a wide variety of potential buyers. Please make sure before you finalize the plans that there is a consensus of the population in my area that they like the features this house has. I advise you to run up and look at my neighbor’s house he constructed last year. We like it a great deal. It has many features that we would also like in our new home, particularly the 75-foot swimming pool. With careful engineering, I believe that you can design this into our new house without impacting the final cost.

Please prepare a complete set of blueprints. It is not necessary at this time to do the real design, since they will be used only for construction bids. Be advised, however, that you will be held accountable for any increase of construction costs as a result of later design changes.

You must be thrilled to be working on as an interesting project as this! To be able to use the latest techniques and materials and to be given such freedom in your designs is something that can’t happen very often. Contact me as soon as possible with your complete ideas and plans.

PS: My wife has just told me that she disagrees with many of the instructions I’ve given you in this letter. As architect, it is your responsibility to resolve these differences. I have tried in the past and have been unable to accomplish this. If you can’t handle this responsibility, I will have to find another architect.

PPS: Perhaps what I need is not a house at all, but a travel trailer. Please advise me as soon as possible if this is the case..

I just want to break down on my knees like Jerry Maguire and plea, “Help me, help you…help me, help you!” But some people are just too damn stubborn…

Okay, so I’m on vacation in the Philippines now. One of the greatest perks of being here is how cheap everything is. Like the past three meals I’ve had here have all been under $2 USD. And you know me when it comes to food. I’m just one happy fucking camper right now.

One thing I’ve been wanting to do to take advantage of the cheap cost of living is get pampered. That means getting a manicure, pedicure, foot scrub and countless massages. (Hey, P.Diddy gets manicures/pedicures…therefore it must be cool, right?) So on my first day here, my mom finds a small saloon in the mall called “David’s Saloon.” When I first hear the name, my first thought was “it must be owned by a bakla.”

So I tell my brothers that I’m going to meet up with Mom and Dad at the saloon. Michael replies with, “you know you’re just gonna end up getting a bakla.” I laugh it off but inside I’m mildly concerned.

So I get there and my parents already have a head start. I look around the room and make notice of the staff: two baklas, a bunch of older women, and a couple cute younger girls. I end up getting a girl who isn’t particularly attractive…but hey, it’s better than getting a bakla.

“+1 for Melvin,” I thought as I recall what Michael said earlier about me getting serviced by a bakla.

Before I start my manicure, I look at my fingernails in detail. “They look alright to me,” I thought to myself…with exception to the little piece of lumpia under one of my fingernail. “I don’t really think they can make my nails any prettier.”

I’m totally wrong though. She spent a good amount of time on each hand and I’m totally impressed with how detailed she is with her work.

Now onto my pedicure. This part of the pampering is what I’ve really been waiting for. I’ve been growing out my narsty toenails for the sole purpose of making my pedicurist work for her money. My feet are pretty worn out, considering how I’ve been playing basketball lately.

As she starts clipping my toenails, specifically my monstrous big toenail, I smile to myself. “That’s right, bitch…I’ve been saving that one for you all this time! Mwahahahahah!” I notice the “oh my god” look on her face when she got to that toenail…and smile in sinister fashion.

A bit later, she starts with my foot scrub. As she scrubs away with that mild sandpaper thing, I’m totally intrigued by how much callous skin she’s scrubbing off.

Sometime during the foot scrub, my mom blurts out to me, “Mel, how would you like a one-hour full body massage for 550 Pisos [$11 USD]?”

“Hell yeah!”

My manicure/pedicurist looks up to me and says, “you’re getting a full-massage too??”

Based on the expression on her face, I figure that she’s the one that’ll give me the massage. Inside I’m just a tiny bit disappointed because I was hoping for someone really attractive. I look around at the other female staff members and think to myself, “god I wish you would be rubbing me down.”

I’m a superficial piece of shit, I know…but God is about to teach me a lesson.

A few minutes later, my pedicure is officially done. Joy, my pedicurist, looks up at me and smiles…

Joy: Edward!!

Edward? What the fuck?

Edward: Come with me, sir.

Hmmm, I guess he’s like a host at a restaurant…

Edward: This is your room, sir.
Mel: Thanks.
Edward: Please, take off and I’ll be right back.
Mel: …you mean take off my clothes?
Edward: Yes sir.

“But Mr. Edward, normally I like to get to know a person before I let them see me naked.”

Whoa Melvin, wait a minute…this is no time for gay jokes. Not even the unspoken ones.

Mel: I should take off everything?
Edward: Just your shorts and shirt, sir.

FUCK. Bad day to not wear underwear…

Mel: Well, I’ll be wearing a towel, right?
Edward: Yes sir, I’ll get your towel right now.

Phew…at least I have a towel…

Edward comes back and throws me a couple towels.

Edward: They’re a little small. I hope you don’t mind.
Edward: *smiles then closes the door*

I unfold the towels. They’re definitely small….small because they’re fucking handtowels! Are you fucking kidding me??!

I take off my clothes and attempt to wrap the towels around my waist.

Nope. Too small. Waaaaay to fucking small. Then Edward comes back in:

Edward: Are the towels okay?
Mel: Ummm…I’m just gonna wear my shorts.
Edward: Okay…

I sense a little disappointment from his voice…but too fucking bad! I need my gay barrier, even if it’s just a thin sheet of cotton. I don’t consider myself as a major homophobe but come on, you gotta draw the line somewhere. I’m about to be rub down with lotion by a gay filipino man…but it’s okay because I still got my shorts.

So I lie on my stomach and gay buttsex massage begins. Edward kicks it off by squirting lotion all over my back.

Disgusting.

My immediate thoughts are the climax scenes in pornos when the guy finally busts. I close my eyes in shame and disgust.

Edward pulls down my shorts a couple inches to expose the top part of my ass and then proceeds to rub me down with lotion, starting at my lower back. The fact that my ass crack is showing is kinda awkward but I get over it. (I’m mean come on, how sexy can an ass crack be? Especially my ass crack.) I just turn up my iPod, close my eyes and think of Jenny McCarthy.

Some time passes by and Edward has thoroughly gone through my back, shoulders, neck, arms, hands and feet. Up next is my legs…and this is where things get…(sigh) interesting…

He starts off with my calves and works his way up. He hikes up my shorts a bit so he can access the upper half. My awkwardness meter steadily rises and then skyrockets when he rubs the bottom part of my ass cheeks.

You know how on TV you see skanky girls wearing their hoochie boy shorts that expose the lower part of their ass cheeks? Yeah, that part. He totally got a good feel of that.

Each time he moves up, he hikes up my shorts just a bit more. Thankfully, he stops before either of my balls start popping out.

But just when I think they gayness is over, Edward starts doing this spanking/slapping thing. He smacks me in my calves, back of my legs…and then he gives me a couple really good smacks on my ass.

So. Fucking. Degrading.

I close my eyes in shame as my face plows into the pillow. In the back of my mind I’m wondering if he’s smiling.

I pray that is the worst of it…but it’s not.

A moment later I find myself lying on my back. He starts out doing more of my feet and calves, so it’s all good. I make a consious effort not to make any eye contact because I don’t want us to “have a moment.”

He starts working his way up my thigh. Higher. And higher. Every inch he moves up, my balls recede more and more.

I recall the many stories I’ve heard about this kinda moment, where the thigh massaging leads to an accidental touching of the balls, which of course leads to a little bow chicka bow wow. But each time I’ve heard one of these amateur porn stories, the masseuse is a gorgeous asian girl and the sex is all sorts of amazing…my situation on the other hand involves a filipino gay named Edward who just spanked my ass and is half-an-inch away from making me Brokeback Melvin.

I close my eyes and tell myself, “it’s only gay if he touches my balls. It’s only gay if he touches my balls. Please don’t touch my balls. Please don’t touch my balls. Please don’t touch my balls!!”

This is the only thing I can think of. Nothing else in this world matters to me now. I don’t care about my new car. I don’t care about all the great food here in the Philippines. I don’t care about Britney’s sex tape…the only thing that matters to me is this very moment, right here, right now, and whether or not there is any physical contact between my manhood and Edward’s lubricated hands.

It’s finally here. The moment of truth. His hands can’t possibly get any closer and my balls can’t recede any higher…

Edward: All finished, Mr. Melvin.

He didn’t touch my balls! He didn’t touch my balls!! Thank God Almighty, he didn’t touch my balls!!!!!I sigh in relief as my balls descend to normal. I shed a tear of joy and another tear of shame. I count my blessings from above yet I curse at the world, all at the same time. That very small yet very, very precious piece of dignity I have left is totally shaken…but still somewhat intact.

What can I say? My life is just a bad porno with the most traumatic sexual encounters ever. The worst part about this whole experience is the fact that I only have myself to blame — all I had to do was say, “no” from the very beginning. I think it’s my passive, over-optimistic nature that allows me to get into this kinda mess.

Ah well. At least my nails look nice now.