Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Hundred days

It has been over a hundred days since I last wrote something. “Over a hundred days” sounds more forgivable than three months. I tried to write something, but it seemed my muse had escaped my literary cavity, wandered off into the streets, and got hit-and-run by a bus called ‘Distractions’.


My attempts at writing for the sake of having something to post were beyond futile. I tried my hand at writing absolute fiction, but realized at the fourth paragraph that I sucked at it. I gave up and admitted that I couldn’t write complete fiction if my life depended on it. When I write, there has to be some degree of personal reality to it, I reckoned.


February
I celebrated Valentine’s Day with my friends. We had a post-Valentine dinner followed by drinks, and gabbed about—what else!—relationships. It’s funny how when there is talk about ‘relationship’, the first (if not the only thing) that comes into people’s mind is having a boyfriend/girlfriend. Like, whatever happened to the other kinds of relationships? Weren’t we taught about ‘symbioses’ in school?  Parasitism, anyone? Commensalism, perhaps? I can very well elaborate on parasitism because our society is populated with parasites—figurative and literal. But don’t ask me about commensalism.

 

So, hell, why is that? There’s even a relationship between me and my mobile phone. Can’t we talk about that the next time we talk about relationships?

 

hundred days


March
In Cebu—after I finished my business, partying with friends followed. And by partying, I mean getting sloshed—no!—wasted. In fact, the drinking started even before I attended to my business. After we had coffee, I got wasted at the mall. Sure, our plan was to “prepare for the night,” but what was supposed to be a few bottles of beer became two buckets—for three people. If it wasn’t for that darn hot shower, I wouldn’t have been able to leave the lodge we stayed at. I remember going all drunk and melodramatic for a guy I’d just met who turned out to be a jerk, and suddenly I was bathing in hot water. I yelled profanities, much to my friends’ amusement.


The night sure didn’t disappoint and our attempt to “prepare” for it by drinking in the afternoon worked. At least for me it did. Two huge bottles of Jose Cuervo for four people. Make that three, since one friend got wasted after about her sixth shot, what with drinking on an empty stomach. My friends and I thought it’s different when you’re partying away from home, where no one you know could see you, and see how you get wasted. I still got wasted from the tequila, but not as wasted as I would have been had we not drank in the afternoon. We danced like idiots, and screamed “Bohol! Bohol!” on the dance floor while stepping on people’s feet. The highlight of the night wasn’t getting some sort of celebrity treatment from a good-looking waiter who saw to it that the moment I put a cigarette between my lips, he was ready with his lighter. It wasn’t seeing my friend dancing with someone from another table. It wasn’t even laughing like a hyena at the door of our room, arguing that the key didn’t fit the lock. It wasn’t puking in my own hands because the toilet bowl was helplessly accommodating my friend who was so wasted she could barely walk. The highlight of the night happened at the bar, or rather at the restroom in the bar, when after I’d taken a leak and was in the drunken process of zipping up, a cute stranger who I reckoned was around my age, approached me and grabbed my balls. Yes, my dear balls got unsolicited squeezing from a stranger. My eyes grew big, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t open my mouth. After that, the stranger smiled and proceeded to a urinal to pee. I walked out of the restroom feeling rather… Hell, I was inebriated. I couldn’t have cared less. Did I feel even remotely harassed? No.

 

In Tagbilaran—my friends whom I went to Cebu with are the type of friends who’d push you to get out of your comfort zone. It’s a good thing, trust me. One night, they encouraged me to take the bait that was standing before me. I was hesitant at first, but those two just know how to challenge me. And besides, if a hot bait approached your table, asked for your name and number, wouldn’t you take it? I wish I didn’t have to say, “And the rest, as they say, is history,” but that was exactly it. After all, what could one ever expect from a one-night stand? Sure, it wasn’t your typical one-night stand as the bait and I have gone out a couple of times after that, and he texts me up to now, but I’m not an idiot. And I don’t believe in fairy tales. So, yes, the rest is fucking history—literally.

 

April
I finally went to a dermatologist to ask for professional help regarding my allergies. Thankfully, I found a good, accommodating, and friendly dermatologist who knows what she’s doing. I went to a dermatologist some years ago for a fungal infection on my toes, and ended up wasting money. My blood boils every time I see that jackass.


May
One Saturday night at a disco club, I was mistaken for a callboy by two very horny guys who wanted a ménage à trois. I was lost on the dance floor as my friends weren’t in the mood to grind and shake and wiggle, when these two boys sandwiched me with their bodies, and asked how much I wanted for a night. I left the dance floor.  Did I feel insulted? No. I was in fact flattered, because even when I don’t have a well-toned body (hell, it isn’t even toned at all), I’d been asked to be a part of a threesome. It’s not something to be proud of, but it was a first. I wasn’t completely shocked, though, as some cute guy had been telling his friends we had already slept together. And I haven’t even met him. He knew my name, though.

 

In the coming months, people will violate my privacy at the mall and ask to have my picture taken with them, then I shall have our car windows get a darker tint just so people don’t trail behind me on the road. In the  coming months, I will no longer be able to have private sessions at the coffee shop because hordes of fans will be taking candid pictures of me while I have my Espresso. In the coming months, I will have to file TROs against stalkers who will go through hell-lengths to sleep with me. In the coming months—

 

June
I’ve been feeling rather picked on by the universe this month. Like it’s been playing some sick, sick joke on me. I accidentally ate fried pork chop that was placed in the same plate with friend chicken. I thought someone in our house wanted to kill me. I suspected it was our help, because I’d been complaining a lot about her utter lack of passion for doing the dishes. I had to pay a visit to my dermatologist again.


My BlackBerry phone died. It’s of the renowned Bold series (Bold 9700), so I expected it to last for years. It lasted for almost two years, alright. Apparently, I’d been unlucky enough to get a faulty device. There’s one in every hundred, you know. Although I’m not speaking statistically, you should know that. I had some technical issues with it during the first few months, but dismissed it on the account of the device being just moody. Stupid, I know. But I was told that when the earpiece didn’t work for a few weeks, I should have brought it in for repair, when it was still under warranty. Too late for self-blame now.


I didn’t have a phone for three days. I didn’t have my BlackBerry for three days, and I felt like a part of me was missing. Silly? You wouldn’t understand unless you’ve established a very personal relationship with your phone. See? There’s that kind of relationship I mentioned earlier. I wrote poems on my BlackBerry. It would sing me to sleep, figuratively. It was my companion on solitary wanderings. It was my eye on the world—Facebook and Twitter, at least. For almost two years, it has helped me beyond being a communication gadget, and beyond what any shallow-minded phone user’s comprehension would allow.


I have a new BlackBerry now, still of the Bold Series. The Bold 9790. It’s six days old, and I’ve already started forging a bond with it. It’s more ‘powerful’ than my old phone. And it’s supposed to of higher quality, so I’m really, really hoping it doesn’t disappoint. I hope it lives up to the Bold reputation. I still miss my old phone, though. I’d have it fixed when I go to Manila (or Singapore, perhaps?). I miss the feel of it in my hands. The 9790 is slimmer, and feels rather fragile compared to the 9700 which was just of the right size and felt really tough. And I’ve switched networks, much to some of my friends’ dismay. I’ve switched from Globe to Smart. Globe will always hold a special place in my… somewhere in the recesses of my brain, but most of my friends are on Smart, so I think it’s only practical as some of them are beyond frugal so as to not reply to messages from other networks—even when it’s important. As for my Globe friends—it’s not like they’ve been texting me a lot lately. So there.

 

These past weeks, I’ve been feeling like I trusted and cared for the wrong people all these years. These people have been really distant lately. I understand that they’re going through changes. But, hey, who doesn’t? All I know is, I don’t want to keep people who don’t care about losing me.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Cold change

It’s a sad, awful fact I wish was just fiction, like those stories I dearly loved when I was young; when I was naïve enough not to know and not to care. But it’s the truth, and there’s no running away from it.

 

People come into our lives, and be it for a brief, fleeting moment or a long and worthwhile period of time, we are changed—for the better or for the worse. People leave, and I have come to terms with that. They become part of you and you, in turn, become part of them; but that’s not always enough to make them stay. It’s never enough. And it sucks, yes. But what sucks even more is when they promise they’d stay. I guess I was a fool for believing them. I was a fool for opening up myself and keeping both feet in. I was a fool to build my life around the idea that nothing will ever change; that those people will always be there come hell or high water; that even if their priorities change, I’ll still be a part of them. I’ve realized that it’s all bullshit, most of the time.

 

But you grow wiser and realize it’s indeed a fact of life. And after it happens for a number of times, you get accustomed to the vicious cycle like some pastime that turns into a hobby.  And you feel less. You care less. You trust less. And, eventually, you love less. You unconsciously give less of what you’re capable of giving, of what you truly want to give. You develop a certain defence mechanism that helps you avoid getting hurt in the end. And I guess it’s for the better. Hell, it may be for the best.

 

So you keep people at arm’s length. You don’t trust easily. And when people get too close, you push them away. When someone tries to open himself up to you, to let you in, you scoff silently at the idea. When you find yourself starting to care for someone, you move away. You keep your distance, you don’t let anyone near. Because the only way people could ever hurt you is when you let them get too close. As with the people who left, you forget them. You forget them like they’ve forgotten you. You grieve, then let go, and forget.

 

You don’t become numb, you just grow cold. You change.