Monday, October 18, 2004


When Life Gives You Lemons, Part 2

So, you knew she was going to flake out. Again. You were just waiting, hoping against your better judgment, that she wouldn't let you down. But no. You just had to wait at the coffeeshop for over two hours, wondering if she was caught in traffic, only to realize that she was never coming at all. It took a text message to confirm that. Thankfully, friends were there to commiserate and to prevent you from becoming an incarnation of Arnold Schwarzzenegger and pitching furniture into the pale of clear glass that overlooked the snarl of traffic that occupied Taft Avenue. But honestly - can someone be more inconsiderate than that?

You knew that you shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning.

You were already vacillating between crying and wanting to hurt someone.

In an effort to distract yourself from the irritation and anger bubbling inside you, you agree to go to EDSA Shangri-la with your friends in order to expend the energy that was threatening to become violent all around you. If you had any telekinetic powers, there would have been little explosions following you around like wind-up toys as you walked along the street. You marveled at the rudeness of it all, at the sheer gall the girl had to tell you this after a couple of hours - and to think you even called her up to ask where she was, and all she said in reply was that she was still having lunch at home. She could have said something, but no. You had to travel, your friends had to travel, just to accomodate her, and for what again? So she could flake out on you. Again.

Fortunately, there was Jollibee at Shangri-la, and National Bookstore, and loads of toy shops where you and your friends went wild and wandered around like children on a coffee high. Afterwards, you find that there was a free jazz concert at the fountain area, and you trot over there like the spellbound captives of the Pied Piper, all drawn towards the promise of the magic of music. Isha, as always, was beautiful on the keyboards. You knew you wanted to marry someone who played the jazz saxophone, and made jokes about men with talented tongues. And somehow, you found yourself singing on the train as you made your way home, shedding friends along the way like one would shed skin, or old wings.


A friend texts you this in the middle of your mall adventure: "May nagchismis daw kay Kla na pumupunta ka lang daw sa mga writer events para makakuha ng sex! Totoo ba yon?! Ambigat non!" (Translation: Someone told Kla that you only go to writer events to have sex? Is that true? That's heavy!) You laugh, wondering who the hell was starting to spread rumors - that someone would even bother to spread rumors about you, would waste their time telling stories about you, is outright laughable. And you wish that it was true - Gods, you need to get laid soon - but sadly, there aren't any men banging on your door and asking you out on a date. In fact, more often than not, you are the one who has to ask if they're free to go out with you. And you end up spending more for things - not that you mind, of course, but sometimes it would be nice to be treated like a girl. ^_^

And then you remember that earlier, at the coffeeshop, you were looking at these cute guys who were seated alone in their little corners, heads bowed over their books, one hand lazily curling around the base of their drinks - coffee or iced tea or a nice tall mocha frap - and after checking them out from head to toe and finding them duly attractive, you ending wondering to yourself, Oh lordy, are they straight?

Gliding On My Own

You tell your friends that single straight men are a dying species - and somehow you find yourself craving someone who drives too fast for his own damn good, who tells you that you spend too much time on your clothes, who is more in love with his computer games than with you, and who refuses to wear that incredibly cute polo you bought for him the other day because he hates the color. Someone who texts you in the evening and asks you where you are and why you haven't called yet, or fetches you from Eastwood at one in the morning 'cos you're stranded in high heels, who gamely sings videoke with you even though his voice could kill the most well-meaning of birds, who tells you that he loves you at the most ordinary of moments. You suddenly realize that you're starting to forget what being in love feels like.

And somehow, this saddens you. But somehow, you also know that it's inevitable, that it is part of the protective wall you are slowly rebuilding around yourself in a valiant effort to prevent anyone else from tearing your heart out of your chest cavity and mashing it into a pulp on the floor. You wish that you could still believe in that kind of love - that pure, unadulterated, will-defeat-time-and-death-and-the-occasional-fart love, that Orphic love that will deny the existence of boundaries, that love that will sacrifice body and soul and guts in order to stay. You wish you still believed in the existence of The One. You wish that someone would find you worthy of their affection, of their time, of their love.

But these are a child's dream: ethereal and shimmering as butterfly's wings brushing your palms as you spread open your fingers to release it.

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