asl...stats?

Even slumbooks get updated,
You see, this one
Reads like a Friendster testi:
My character is qualified as (1) hilarious,
(2) geeky, (3) flirtatious, (4) crazy
But stats are inescapable
For you have my first name (Cesario, Jr.),
Last name (Minor),
Addresses (Tarlac and Nueva Ecija),
I half-expect adding my suking tindahan
And proof of purchase.
No date of birth, zodiac or favorite shade (which,
By the way, is never white—a non-color, technically)
But my age (27),
Sex (M, which does not stand for "Madalas")
Height (5’, 5”, whether lying or
Erect—my body, I mean),
Built (slim),
Complexion (brown),
School (UPD),
Course (I’m an English Major).
Nobody bothers to ask
Why I love literature,
Or would I die to see Latin America,
Or what makes Juday a pop icon.
Always it’s about how much I earn,
How many times (hint…hint),
How many lays.
Numbers—these are human fancy.

I wish I could simplify
And just say, “This is me,”
But this outrageous world is obsessed with statistics,
Boxing up everything oh so neatly
Without me putting up a fight
Though armed with a keyboard
With a functioning DELETE key.