Biography

"Although his exact age is unknown there have been various listings that have confirmed Laurence's birth date as February 11th 1984, but it has also been listed as July 3rd 1979 as well as July 16th 1982.

Laurence was born in a small town in La Union as Joseph Garcia. Both his parents (Mildred and Sigfried Garcia) were drunk farmers that met on a charity bingo for drunk singles sometime in the 1970's. It was said that upon talking to each other for the first time, the worst genocide in Philippine history occurred in Southern Mindanao, the bottom-most part of the Philippines.

In 1987, Laurence's parents broke-up; however, 2 weeks after the split, Sigfried was living in Saudi Arabia and was killed while trying to deliver a baby in the back of a bus whose driver had suffered a heart attack. The newborn baby was the only living survivor of the accident, and Laurence's mother adopted the baby boy soon after, having the baby shipped overnight via FedEX. This baby would die 6 days upon arrival in the Philippines; it was used to drinking a special kind of crude oil-milk concoction available only in Riyadh.

In the mid 90's when he was in 6th grade, Laurence spent 3 years in prison (for adults) for stabbing his Theology teacher - with a pencil....in the groin. This led him to discover the compulsory English & Writing, Physics and Math lessons in the institution, taught by the strict and virgin nuns of The Latter Day Gay Nuns of St. Maria Goretti. Needless to say, the poor lad suffered a great deal mentally and emotionally in Math and Physics but he had, for some strange reason, managed to pass (barely) in his English and Writing class.

Upon returning home in 1999, Laurence started writing non-fiction and fiction essays, a skill and passion that were inspired while his stay in prison. He then started making his own "magazines" (called fanzines), albeit photo-copied, they were crudely filled with a gloomy disposition lacking in most mainstream reading materials, both fiction or non-fiction. Laurence's fanzines still managed to develop a small underground following.

In 2001, Laurence's imaginary younger brother (Roberto) committed suicide. The loss devastated Laurence. Laurence went on a destructive alcohol binge for the next 2 years.

In May 2003 after waking up on the steps of a local Manila church covered in his own blood, vomit and urine, Laurence decided Jesus would not take him alive and continued with the activities of writing pieces that would grace his fanzines. Laurence went on mental trips to Tibet and Scotland to further cleanse his holy (sic) mind.

Though some rumors speculate that Laurence committed suicide on July 27th 2007 in Ermita, Manila, due to the painful and heartbreaking break-up with his IT Professional girlfriend of 4 years, there are still no confirmations to this fact but apparently, *someone* still makes the fanzines started by Laurence with what many say is actually a Laurence impersonator and this said impersonator supposedly updates Laurence's myspace and friendster accounts from time to time."

- taken from a reliable internet information database that's not Wikipedia.org

Wounds

compared to scars,

I'd rather have the wounds, anytime.

scars get on my nerves.

they make me see red.

having a scar
is
just
imagining
the
ride.

having a wound
is
the
experience

itself.

so I keep my wounds scar-free.

I put salt on my wounds and I feel overwhelmingly alive.
the euphoria is unexplainable

pain intolerable
tolerance unbearable.

it's a personal litmus test.

but that's how I learn,

on

what

kind

of

shit

I am truly made out of.

so I keep any wound I have fresh and free from healing.

because....

when a wound heals...

it's

just

a

lousy

euphemism

for

being

lifeless.
lame.
dead.

wounds are testaments
that
life,

as fucked up
as it is,

is still
a
ride
worth
riding.

This Shit Rips Like A Mad Motherfucker

I have been listening to this album for 3 straight weeks now - alternately with my Insect Warfare and Black Flag records - and it still gives me the same high I've had when I first listened to it. I am tempted to "review" this thoroughly by giving it a song-by-song preview but it wouldn't do justice to its brilliance. Fuck what other people say but The Beastie Boys have got the chops. And this is an instrumental album. Go figure. Word.

A Bitter Albeit Liberating Eulogy

August is the most turbulent, fucked-up, depressing, and CONFUSING month of 2007 for me. The reasons, as cold and indifferent as they can be, are pretty much intense but they still managed to coalesce into something I've come to appreciate, even if they proved way too much for me to handle properly. Easier said than done, I know.

I have long surrendered to the fact that I am a retarded jackass. I don't struggle to shrug off the fact but I neither embrace it. I let it be. I let it go on its own course. I let it go like a rabid motherfucker. I feed off its adrenaline and it feeds off me. Then I find myself fucked up, fucked over, and just not giving two hot fucks about what's going to happen next.

I automatically run on auto-pilot then the impending violent crash takes a detour. Then a delay.

Reality gets back on its track and bitch-slaps me rudely to the 4th plane. I shake the Last of The Migraines. Then I take a look at the eyes of The Whatcouldvebeen and I am baffled and excited and stirred and anxious and impatient. I become slovenly perplexed. An intense inner tremor of some kind. Like a nasty habit you can't stop doing. It feels helpless. It's numbing. It induces grief in high fucking dosages. I become stupor in human form.

The Whatcouldvebeen. Ah, yes. I will be completely honest and say it....it is absofuckinglutely ethereal. It's nothing I have ever seen before. Or imagined. The timing in which I have fully grasped and understood its nature crushed me but it somehow became my glue, the thing that kept my shit together, the thing that made me go, "Shit, this is NICE." The funny thing is, I have no idea if the storm is over or if I'm staring at its eye.

Then its 31 chances are over. A new cycle begins. A new deck has been dealt. I find myself scarred intensely, head split open by lame-ass assumptions, sweet talk rebutted with stone-cold disbelief, whispers crushed by screams loud enough to scare large wild animals, and most importantly, my heart has been ripped out several times by tumultuous surprises. How it fucking found its way back to my chest is still a mystery to me.

I have seen the nice and delightfully colored dining hall but I found myself in the boiler room. Things happen for a reason? Bullshit. Your feet brought you to where you're at.

For some reason that's completely beyond me, I am still here and August is not. August had finally met its Maker. Funeral for a foe. Disappointment takes a bullet in the head (finally).

Good riddance, motherfucker...I just might piss on your grave one of these days.

Quote

“…all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”
-George Bernard Shaw