Dearest People-who-will-adore-my-every-fiber-when-I-became-Queen-of-the-Universe,

I do realize that the world is waiting again, with purplish vein-that-is-ready-to-pop, for my next moves. Of course, if you did have an apoplexy for all those stalling I did (with regards to the Lefthands' introduction), I could have my secretary send you a basket of apples and a get-well-soon card. But knowing my secretary, you should have a bomb squad ready in case she screwed up again and send you a basket of grenades instead.

Well let's stop talking about my inept secretary for now. Rather, I would like to explain why I haven't done any updating the citizens of the world about all the glories I am planning to bring into this century.

First of all, I got sidetracked from doing my evil plans because Brad Pitt was wooing me to star with him on his movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Yes, people-of-the-world, before Angelina Jolie got the part (after Nicole Kidman and Catherine Zeta- Jones declined), I was slated to become Pitt's co-star. It was prolly my sexy bod after the San Diego personal training fitness regimen I did that got me the deal but sometimes, I suspect that it was something else.

At that time, I was in Chicago on a mission. As it happened, my ex-body host Van-who-lives-in-that-metaphoric-petridish, was wailing over this suicidal loser who suddenly disappeared on the surface of earth, thus making Van cry.

Now, I can't stand crying. Whenever I see someone crying, I have this compulsion to stuff him/her with happy brownies… if that doesn't work, I'll just have to spike the drinks with muriatic acid. But seeing Van cry disturbs me because she always does her business in private; else, she always hides in metaphors.

During the time that the said loser went away without a word, Van was very distraught. She quit her job, went LOA on her beloved org, cut herself from the outside world, wrote blogs that aren't so metaphorical, and stamped her forehead "Leper" in vivid red ink. As an ex-body-hostee, I have to do something about it, lest she decides to put me back inside her body again. (And she is really thinking about merging my acquiredtaste home and her petridish home)

I was in Chicago for a survival mission, minion readers. I just gotta see whatever happened to her loser boyfriend before she decides to control me again. No way am I ever going to go back! Ask me to stop eating chocolates for all eternity BUT I shall never ever kiss my Maker's fat ass again!!!

*Hyperventilates*

Anyweyz, my stay in Chicago was a crazy one. First, I was dropped off by the cab -that my secretary contacted for my safety - at Cabrini Green by mistake. Cabrini Green, by the way, is like Tondo… only worse. It's a housing project that's infamous for its high mortality rate (think guns, goons, and drugs) that my Prada heels and I were in danger of getting mugged. Thank goodness, there was a big casting call for "Star Wars extras" in the hood that nobody ever paid any attention to me… or so I thought.

Stealing stealthy away from the crowd of Star Wars fans, I bumped onto the chest of someone wearing a Chewbacca costume. Well, I don't hate Chewbacca, really, but he kinda reminds me of that chimp (from that Guatemalan Zoo I visited last year) who attached himself at my leg and humps away. Result, I spat as his face, dug my Prada at Chewy's balls, and then ran away.

Turns out, Brad Pitt was inside the one inside the Chewy costume and he fell in love with me. Yes, yes, dear readers… Pitt fell for me real hard that he stalked me big time.

In one of our telephone conversations (mistaken as the rumored Pitt-Jolie phone sex):

Pitt: Hello Pepperella?

Me: Yes. Who is this?

Pitt: Doesn't matter (cocky tone) All that is important is that I see you again.

Me muttering to myself: Pffft… not another stalker. (slams receiver)

(phone rings again)

Me: Hello?

Pitt: I'm sorry, that was a bad start. Actually, we met before. I was the one you kicked in the balls this afternoon and –

Me: If you're calling for doctor's fee, that's not my problem. I advice you put ice instead. It might refrigerate what's left of your sperms. Good day.

(put downs the receiver)

(phone rings again)

Me: What???

Pitt: I was the one in Chewbecca's costume and you kicked me in the balls so hard you –

Me: Listen Chewy, I'm sorry for that kick. I just hated monkeys, that's all.  Now, I don't know how you traced me, but you must've been pretty cooked up to bother contacting me about your balls.

Pitt: That's nothing. It's just that –

Me: I'll tell you what, Mr. Chewy, I'll just give you the number of my massage therapist. With his healing hands, you'll feel like a new man afterwards… that is if you don't mind a gay person touching your thingy.

Pitt: I didn't call for that, really. It's just that –

Me: Oh, don't worry about the bills. I'll take care of it. Here's his number: ******* country code 63, area code 02. I'll have him flown from Manila immediately after your call.

Pitt: But –

Me: No buts. I insist. Now, be gone. Bye.

(phone rings again)

Pitt: I WANT YOU!!!

Me: Oh, it's you again. (sighs) Alright, alright, let me hear what you have to say.

Pitt: Listen, Pepperella. I must have YOU! You must STAR in my next movie!

Me: Pffft… Chewy, I simply cannot see myself donning an Ewoks suit, ok? I know I'm petite but if you ask me that I'm gonna do serious damage to your person.

Pitt: Sweetheart, my balls already know what you are capable of. And it is exactly your viciousness that convinced me that I must have you in my next movie. Your pouty lips spitting like a Komodo dragon… your magnificent limb crushing my… (winces at the memory)

Me: Ruh-haaaayt. (rolls eyes) Look, it you're asking me out, your choice of adoring words are not getting me. And who are you to offer me a part in a movie? Some talent agent or something? Ha! Like I would go out with some sleazy grease head in a flea market suit. Let me tell you, dearie, I only go out with celebrities. Capisce?

Pitt: Then you'll go out with me and then star in my movie. I'm Brad Pitt.

Me: (snorts) You must think I'm daft. You've taken too much of my time. Good day.

(phone rings again)

Pitt: But I think I LOVE YOU!!! And you've branded me more than you can guess! I -

Me: FREAK!!! (shrieking)

Then I unhook the cord and switched off my mobile phone for the rest of the day. Tomorrow morning, I received an email coming from Van:

"Pepperella Dearest, It's ok to come home now. Omnipresent Him just emailed me and we're through! So you don't have to look for him now. But I'll be needing your help again… you know the usual… there was this guy and I think I nerd a new look… do you think I look better with short hair or should I just go for a perm? And oh what about … blah blah blah blah"

Sheesh… she just won't give up on guys huh? One guy broke her heart, then just give her a minute to recover and she'll jump on the next available seat for HeartacheVille. Tsk tsk.

The moment I got home, I had another bomb coming from my secretary:

Secretary: Oh, so you didn't accept the movie offer afterall, huh?

Me: What movie offer?

Secretary: Don't tell me Brad Pitt didn't call you yesterday??? I knew it! I knew it!! The producer guy was just another one of those crazy fans of yours that pretends to be something he isn't just so he could get his hands on your contact numbers!! Oh boss, I'm sorry. (wails) I screwed up again!!! (wails louder)

Me: What the hell are you talking about???

Secretary: (sniffs) Well, there was this guy called here while you're gone. He said you encountered Brad Pitt at the casting call for Star Wars Episode 3 extras. He said you impressed Mr. Pitt when you gave him a kicked on his *eherm* while he was wearing his Chewbacca suit. "…She kicked him so hard, her tracking ID got imprinted in his balls," he said. And oh, I believed him because he KNOWS about that tracking ID that you asked me to put in your shoes so you could track your Prada if ever you lose it. (wails) So I gave them all the information that they want while you're in Chicago!!!

Me: Uh oh. (paling)

Secretary: Yes, I screwed up. (wails ever louder) And now, we're screwed!!! They know our premises! They have your contact numbers!!! Aieeeeeeeeee!!! Who knows, they might be lurking here like some gaddamit cockroach on the prowl!!!

Nope, I'm the one that screwed up. But I'll be damn if I told my secretary that.

Let this be our teeny weeny secret,

Pepperella