The Balls to Choose
One mournful morning at my father’s wake you confessed your cheating on me. Duly, I had to ask why? “When it rains it pours” was your cold reply. I yearned a whispered sorry, a warm consolation to soothe my sore spirit. Rather, cold words—your arctic sympathy...
When you get so bored, don’t masturbate. Instead, check your Friendster account and bid some fascination over a chance that some grade school buddy best remembered by his failure to hold his stool in his rectum before he reaches home from school asks you to add him to your friends list. Or be the pakialamera (meddlesome) that you are born to be and go check who your friend’s friend’s friends are.
That is what I did the other day when I thought of checking who you’ve been hanging around lately. I haven’t seen you for almost two years now. And when I thought I was about to be out-jaded while grinning at your not-so flattering photo, I see miles and stretch of eulogies, testimonials for the person who in Cat Steven a.k.a. Yusuf Islam’s terms cut me the deepest. And cut is what I felt again.
Eulogies like testimonials are sometimes big blahg of bullshits* of praises. I know so much about you that I dare believe I possess omnipotence over every reference and every statement paid tribute to dear you. And yes, Bryan Almighty says they’re all bullshit.
Sure, you held your breath, the door and the umbrella for me. Sure, you asked how my day was. Sure, you sang me a Mariah and promised to give your all. But that’s about it.
I owe it to myself to regard you a traitor. How could you be so good and nice to all of them and never to me? How could you be the warm and fuzzy You to everyone while you leave me out in the cold world of doubts most of the time?
The very few nice things we shared overshadow the mountains of monstrosities you burdened me of but only because I choose to have down pat it that way. I choose now in a like manner I chose to inflict pain on myself after I opted to stay in that relationship when all that was left to do then is to rush through the back door.
I choose to believe that I don’t know you that much after all. I regard you a better person now, and that your friends aren’t bullshit-ing you after all.
Indulge me in my choice to reminisce my first love as a memory of a nice you.
29 April 2006
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