It's been quite some time since I last updated this blog. I really do not know what caused the steam to run out...perhaps I got tired of being bitter, perhaps it was because a few months ago my country got consumed by floods, perhaps it is because the imaginary boyfriend has become real and we all know that once a boy sprouts into your life the easiest things to forgo are cyberspace and the gym (I confess I left both).
It was the 26th of September. The rain fall was unexpected. It hadn't been raining all week. And even as it fell on the mall's glass roof, I wasn't really worried. We (my friends and I) have just come from a sleepover and our only concern was breakfast. But then our families started calling with news of styrofoam being used as boats, roofs being washed away and people getting trapped in their houses. My own family couldn't get down from the second floor of our house. Our cars were now nothing more than floating scrap metal.
The escapist that I was, I decided to get a foot scrub. I had no intention of dwelling over the shambles my part of the world was going through. Selfish yes but we survive our lot in different was and this was mine. And as I sat there waiting for my turn to be pumiced and polished, my cellphone started ringing. The screen was flashing an unknown number. I decide to answer it. It's him. He was asking if I was okay.
Him here pertains to the 2-week boy. An entry I think has been devoted to him. This blogspot was in part created to vomit verbal and emotional garbage caused by our relationship's demise. Logic dictated I be cold and civil to 2-week boy and nothing more. But let me say now, that I am not much for logic. Hello. Foot scrub.
And besides, when you're in danger of going the way of the Atlantis, I think it pays to be a tad more reckless than usual. This could be your last chance to be an idiot after all.
The supposed idiocy has so far been going well. He's charming and sweet and witty and funny and great. He loves pizza and burgers and Mexican food. He sleeps so soundly that rock concerts cannot awake him. He's adored by my foster brother. He kisses so gaddam well. He loves me. I love him.
So excuse me please if I forget to pop in this blog or if my belly has become unsightly. I am enjoying the 2-week boy's company too much.
I wake up to my phone ringing and I groggily pick up my cell. It's Miguel,calling me first thing in the morning like he always does. Only it's ten am and it's not really that early. He's asking me to have breakfast with him in that roadside place in Pampanga. I laugh and tell him by the time we get there it would be almost dinner. He doesn't believe me but then I remind him of how last week's breakfast trip to Tagaytay turned into merienda by Taal Vista. He insists, saying breakfast is any meal with sunny side up eggs. I agree because who can argue with that logic?
Miguel is a writer for a rival ad agency. He is eons better than I am at this job and I am in constant awe of him. He rolls his eyes at my adulation , saying he could never match my passion. I laugh derisively at this but secretly melt every time he says it. He says his real passion is fiction and I know this to be true. He has a published book of essays and two children's stories. He has Palanca's to show for the latter two. Currently, he is co-writing another short children's story, this time, with me. *heart heart*
Miguel is not only talented and witty and intensely in love with traveling for breakfast, he is also quite the looker. He's very Seth Cohen meets Chuck only cuter. He has a crookedly charming smile and constantly tousled hair. His eyes though are completely incongruent with the whole geek appeal - as they are piercing and intense. At times, he looks at me as if possessed and it sends shivers up my spine. I almost always have to avert my eyes to keep myself from pouncing on his juicy lips - just imagine how awkward a situation it would be if we're at a family brunch or church. It goes without saying that he is a.ma.zing in bed.
He smokes sometimes out of boredom but mostly, he wastes time doing crossword puzzles or reading jokes in Reader's Digest. He can never get me interested in the former but I am all over the latter. Sometimes, we argue about who gets to read the jokes first.
Miguel loves discovering new music. He introduces me to quirky bands he finds on myspace and lastfm and wherever else one finds new bands. But he's far from being a snob. In fact, we are united for a common liking for 90's pop. And we're talking gooey mainstream pop here like Paula Cole, Backstreet Boys and Jessica Simpson.
And of course, we are also united under our common love for the Eheads - heck, we almost met during their reunion concert but we were much too busy shouting our lungs out to notice our possible love of our lives were in our midst.
It's not all roses and sunshine with Miguel, of course. We fight. We argue. We walk away. But we never shout. We never curse. And there are times when even if we are extremely mad at each other, I find we are still holding hands.
Got to wrap this entry up. Miguel just sms-ed. He's downstairs already. Pampanga breakfast here we come! I wonder if I could convince him to go to the Paranaque Dampa for dinner?
Today, the day I had to have my passport picture taken, I broke out in hives. So before stepping into the photo booth I stopped by a grocery store to buy water so I could down my meds.
It was all pretty routine until a song played over the P.A. system.
Around five years ago, I saw Shania Twain's video From This Moment playing on MTV and without thinking I giddily reached for my phone and texted my then boyfriend that the song reminded me of him. And he texted back, promising we'd some day march down the aisle to it.
Cut to present day, and the only aisle where that song and I would meet is at the grocery.
When I have nothing better to do I spend my time going over every interesting blog, Plurk, Facebook, Tumblr I can find. Google is the awesome enabler of this bad habit as it leads me link to link to link until I realize it's 4 am and I once again have forgotten to sleep. (And I wonder why my skin is riddled with pimples. :P)
It satisfies the voyeur (or more simply the chismosa) in me to be able to peek into other people's lives. You find out things that years of actual friendship may never reveal. And although I never share my piece, it feels as if I was part of a conversation.
Years ago, I found blogging to be a weird concept. It was introduced to me via Livejournal.com and, despite peer pressure, I really did not want to join. I didn't get why I'd want to tell the whole world wide web what I was up to, what I was feeling, what I was enjoying. Journals for me were things that were meant to be secret - anecdotes shared only between writer and page. There seemed to be no sense letting big_daddy2234 join in.
But here I am, years after, the proud owner of several sites. None popular. None followed. But fame is not the point. It is the pleasure in the probability that someone may read these entries and empathize. And in their own way, listen.
No one can interrupt you as you type away in your blog. Even when limited by 160 characters, all 160 characters are yours. People who choose or stumble upon your site are forced to acknowledge your thoughts. And some of them, if you're lucky or witty or both, will stay long and visit often. And then, even at your loneliest, you're really not alone.
In some Richard Gere movie, it was said that we all need witnesses to our lives. Someone who can definitively say we existed even after we're long gone. And cyberspace has given all of us a greater chance to be remembered.
So you see, I'm not a creepy cyber lurker. I'm really a witness to your life...albeit a silent unknown one. :P
Curly: You only dated for 2 weeks so does he really count?
Officemate:(in the middle of crying over her own ex) 2 weeks? Is that enough time to have invested anything?
breakups while you wait
The problem with relationships that last as long as a blink of an eye is that everyone assumes that the grieving process will be just as quick. Everyone thinks that - even the dumpee.
The day after he broke up with me, I woke up in tears but calmed myself with the thought that I'd only be sad for a maximum of 3 days. And so, every time I felt a breakdown coming, I always started the crying fest with a vocal reassurance to myself and my friends that come Thursday, the drama will be cold and dead and buried.
Cut to 3 months later. Everyone thinks I'm long over him but -surprise, surprise- I am not. I hide it because I feel stupid. HOW!? can I still be affected? HOW?! can I still care for him? HOW?! can I still cry at the Ortigas-Lanuza stoplight whenever I hear The Script play?
The shame doubles whenever friends begin to joke about how short-lived we were and how lucky I am to be rid of such a jerk. I laugh and agree as if it's the funniest thing ever but I don't really mean it.
I screamed as if my life depended on it. My heart was in my dry dry dry throat, my eyes were bulging out of their sockets as my stomach twisted into infinite knots. Knots - it's such a cliche but one of the truer ones. It felt as if a boyscout practiced with my guts.
But still, I screamed, in the hopes that decibels would generate points and blocks and rebounds and true-to-life Space Jam miracles. But all it did was deafen my seatmates. As the shot clock dwindled to zero, I could hear the boys' hearts shatter. Our office basketball team lost. 78-76.
We went up to our players, squeezed their sore arms, patted their sweaty backs and told them the perfunctory "It's okay." But both fan and player knew as they nodded meekly to each other that it was far far far from okay. Both knew that if it were socially acceptable to start throwing benches, punching walls, and tearing off referees' heads - both would be doing just that. Because failing at something you've put so much of yourself into is never ever okay. And yes, even if it's "just" a game.
Don't worry boys...it's not okay now but give it some time and it will be.
above photo from http://media.collegepublisher.com/media/paper849/stills/t55emqq1.jpg