DON’T HATE ME JUST BECAUSE I’M THIN

Oh yes, you heard me. Don’t hate me just because I’m thin.

Ok, I must admit that I am not as thin as I used to be. Right now, I think I weigh in around 100 pounds, give or take a couple. You might think this is still thin, but no. Back when I was in college, I was around 85-87 pounds, on a 5′2 frame. Now THAT is thin.

Now before you start screaming “anorexia!” at me, let me make things clear: I may be as thin as Nicole Richie (before she got preggers with baby daddy Joel Madden) back then, but I NEVER and I do mean NEVER dieted. Now this is the part where the jealousy will start to pour down in acid rain torrents. I NEVER dieted in my 26 years of existence. For me, diet is the word DIE with a T in the end. If you ask me, the best things in life are music, books, sex AND food (in no particular order, of course) and I will be damned if somebody asks me to cut down on gorging myself with the culinary delights that this planet has to offer. I don’t give a shit about the weighing scale and I only weigh myself when my employer requires me to have a medical exam. I lost a few pounds? Oh well. I gained three pounds? Yay!

Yes, I am one of those women who LOVE it when the pounds come in. I live in a parallel universe where the women do everything in their power to GAIN weight. You heard me? GAIN, not lose. See, if you are my type of woman, you can eat as much McDonald’s as you can and it will register nothing on the weighing scale. Michael Moore’s documentary will have a different ending if he chose me as his guinea pig instead.

Hate us, curvy women of the world, but this much is true. There ARE women like me who can eat anything we want but still remain slim. You can heap all the insults that you want to make yourselves feel better about your overweight selves, but hey, whoever said the world is fair? Go on, extol the virtues of women life Jennifer Lopez and Beyonce Knowles, and tell us that THEY are the real women, ‘em with the big booty and the generous curves. Go on, we don’t mind. Oh excuse me, while you bicker at me with everything that you got, can I open up this bucket of deep fried, crispy KFC and smear the chicken with this delicious gravy? I can just chomp on this while you talk, no problem. And oh yeah, can you pass me that big tumbler of Coke, the non-diet variety, ok? Thank you.

Now, this doesn’t mean I’m here to insult the voluptuous members of the female species, because if there is one thing that I do NOT advocate, it’s pressuring women to starve themselves in order to get thin. If you must know, I think anorexia is one big horseshit. I may sound horribly insensitive to those who have eating disorders, but I’m sorry, I just think it IS bullshit. Coming from a third world country with a considerable portion of the population belonging in the poverty line, I think it is equally horrible that there are people who don’t want to eat. I mean, c’mon, imagine this: how can some people in the Western world starve themselves to extremes while on the other side of the globe, those agonizingly emaciated children in Africa are helplessly stuck in famine?

All I’m saying is, overweight women should not lash out their frustrations on thin women to the point that is unjustifiable, especially to those girls who just can’t help being thin because they have slender bones and everything. You wanna lose the pounds? Fine, go the gym and eat healthy (eating healthy is different from eating nothing, ok?) Too lazy to work at it? No problem, just tell people that you are born in the wrong era and you are actually a reincarnation of one of those abundant women from the pre-Raphaelite paintings, anything to make you feel better. Berating other women because of their thin frame doesn’t make you any prettier. Tough, I know, but that’s just the way it is. Deal with it.

And yeah, please, oh please, stop attacking those runaway models in Paris and Italy. While I hate the fact there are models who subsist on coffee and cigarettes and pass up the cheese sandwiches (cheese sandwich, for chrissakes!) I am also realistic enough to recognize the incorrigible truth that couture looks best on tall, slender women. Put those clothes on short, frumpy women and they will be worth shit. And those anorexic models who place the blame on the fashion industry for all their glamorous misery? Fuck you, girls, if you don’t like dieting and would rather have that raspberry mousse, get the hell out of modeling and shut up. No one is forcing you to be a model. There are thousands of teenaged girls out there who would kill to step into your Jimmy Choos. You can’t hack it, find yourself another line of work. Or do print, at least.

What I just want to promote here is this thing called being realistic. You know, keeping it real. I know that you’ve heard of this like, a jillion times before, but really, self-acceptance is the key to a happier life. Unless you are a movie star who can afford to replace all your body parts into something that is aesthetically pleasing to the public, there isn’t much we regular people can do with the face and the bone structure that we are born with. You can blame your momma and poppa with the less-than-perfect genes that they passed on to you, but hey, you can’t do anything about it. It’s the same with your body weight. There are people like me equipped with superhuman metabolism and eat anything we want without gaining weight, and there are those who have to watch every calorie they shove into their mouths in order not to turn into a blimp. There are women born with fantastic skin that can go as it is in photographs, and there are some like me who have to take care of our skin meticulously and cannot live without concealers. There are people who can sing and dance as if they are destined to do so, and there are some like me who will NOT sing and dance unless we are threatened with our very lives. Gets?

And yes, curvy women need not despair when it comes to attracting men. I know for certain that there are men who prefer a lot of meat on their women, just as there are some who wants the slim type. Feel grateful that more and more men have become less narrow-minded about stuff like body weight. As far as I am concerned, unless you do not let yourself go and become horribly obese and you have no body odor, you are presentable enough. I did say, presentable. Being attractive is more than skin deep, and this depends on the kind of brains that you got and the kind of character you have in there. Unfortunately, charm is something intangible, and totally unrelated to your body weight. You either have it, or you don’t.

YOU MAKE ME WANT TO BE A BETTER WOMAN

Have you ever experienced those times when a particular line from a song or a movie gets stuck in your mind and stays with you all day and all night long, and will continue its incessant haunting for those days on end? For the life of me, I cannot grasp the reason why this line from “As Good as it Gets” became well, a mantra if you will lately. As far as I know, I have no one to dedicate this simple, but touching line to. Or maybe I’ve been watching too many Jack Nicholson movies. Actually, this line is originally, “You make me want to be a better man,” since it is Melvin Udall’s memorable line to Helen Hunt’s Carol Connely. But since I am a woman, I adjusted it to suit my gender.

It doesn’t say much at first glance. It is not made up of flowery words that can impress people with Shakespearean tendencies. I think it is touching in its simplicity, and if uttered with outmost sincerity, it can be the most significant thing that you can say to the one you love, even more powerful than that old, wasted line, “I love you.”

Why? Saying “I love you” to a person is just that – a straightforward declaration of affections that does not quite pack in enough punch, given the way it has been misused and abused lately. The truth is, this line has lost the effect that it is supposed to have, since you can hear this from people almost any given day. Whether it was said truthfully or in jest, it doesn’t matter. “I love you” has become a dime a dozen,

“You make me want to be a better woman…”

I can actually feel the thrill of saying this all the way to the innermost recesses of my emotions. The intensity simply tugs urgently at my heartstrings, even though I haven’t actually said this aloud to somebody. But already, I can feel the swell of emotions that I am expected to have just by imagining saying this to a person that I am supposedly madly in love with. Saying that you are willing to change and become a better person simply encompasses everything that an “I love you” has to offer – because it shows that the love that you have for a person is so strong that it is enough to make you do something dramatic and possibly life-altering, and the passion is so great it fuels up your desire to go boldly and without fear to something that is the completely opposite of what you have known all your life. To go bravely against what has been the most natural in all your existence – if that is not love, I don’t know what is.

Of course, this line is not suitable for those who think there is nothing more to change about themselves, those conceited bastards who think that they are fucking perfect just the way they are.

For the future man in my life

I am a wonderful woman. This I say with no trace of braggadocio. I am a woman with a big heart, the type who will love her man with no reservations, but I am no pushover either. I am very much secure with myself that I cannot or will not succumb to something that I think is wrong. I am not the most beautiful woman in the world, but I have my own set of deadly charms and smarts, which are enough to snag and reel you into my world – and make you stay there. I am the type of woman that you will not hesitate to introduce to your friends, but you may have to deal with the fact that some of them might make a play for my direction. See, I have my own way of making a man feel intrigued with me, and not a few of these hombres have told me that I am quite the mysterious character. Well, I am a Scorpio. Maybe that explains everything.

I am a woman of great passion. With me, you can experience the greatest love you will ever know in your life, for I am selfless when it comes to the man I love. I will give whatever it is that you need, as long as I can give it. There may be times that it will seem that there is nothing left to give, but I will always find more ways to give you more.

No, I am not talking about money.

Speaking of that, you will be glad to know that I am not the type who will needle cash out from her man, unless it is a matter of life and death. I value my pride so much that I will always want to pay for my personal stuff. But this does not mean you can go cheapskate on me. Let me warn you that most of your budget on me will not be spent on clothes, flowers and perfume, but on food. I am a woman of voracious appetites; don’t let my small frame fool you. I can share a box of pizza with you, and I can eat as many slices as you can. I absolutely adore it when a man tries to feed me as much food as he can afford.

I can be such a darling, but remember: I love with great intensity and hate with enormous ferocity. I am not a woman to mess with. If you do, you will regret it. My tongue can do wonders for you if you treat me right, but it can also be your downfall if you shit on me. By the time I am through with you, you will wish I had sliced your penis instead.

I can make you feel the most powerful and most desirable man that ever walked the Earth, but I can also make you wish you stayed in your mother’s womb for a bit longer instead.

Now, if ever we reached the holy stage of matrimony (I do shudder at the mere mention of the word) things can get quite tricky. You see, I am very different from the average woman.

You must understand that I do not equate the word wife with maid. In the same letter, do not expect me to stay at home and be the loving housewife. Unlike some women, I do not consider housework as therapy after a long day’s work. Sure, I can do the dishes and clean the house a bit, but that’s as much wifely duties I am willing to do. There are other things I’d rather do for you, and that includes making you very happy in bed any night you wish. I am very much willing to make this a full time job. I am willing to explore every nook and cranny of your body and will not hesitate to find out what makes you scream with pleasure. Of course, I will expect you to have the same level of sexual appetites and expertise as mine, more if possible. I predict that our bed will not last as long as it should, poor thing.

Before you marry me, you must come equipped with a sturdy washing machine because I HATE doing laundry by hand. My hands are very sensitive and cannot stand ANY kind of detergent. I can wash your boxers for you but I refuse to wash your shirts. I don’t wash MY clothes, and I will not scrub your shirts, which are probably thrice bigger than mine.

They say a great wife is someone who is a great hostess in the living room, a gourmet chef in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom. I say I’d hire the other two and take care of the bedroom bit.

Kids? I don’t intend to be a baby factory. I’m scared shitless of getting pregnant and the thought of squeezing a watermelon out of a hole the size of a calamansi. Of course, I will give you kids, granted that there is nothing wrong with my reproductive system, but I can only stand to have two. Life is hard nowadays, and I don’t like to bring children into this world and not provide them with what they want and need. I detest those couples that keep making babies without a thought to the financial repercussions. Every time I see a child knocking on motorists’ cars and asking for some change, I want to scream and ask him where the hell his parents are. Sending your kids out to beg for his food money is unforgivable.

Now if you look like Brad Pitt, I might reconsider and move the number up to three. If I mate with someone who looks that good, I figured my baby will look devastatingly handsome or beautiful I can cash in on that and make him or her into a cash cow. Joooke.

You will have to deal with the fact that I am insanely in love with John Legend. If he ever asks me to run away with him to some island in the Caribbean, brace yourself because I will leave you, no questions asked.

Am I asking too much? Probably. But I really don’t care. As far as I am concerned, I am worth every cent and every effort that you will spend. I am the most complex and exciting woman you will ever know, and I can make your life super or miserable, depends on how you handle things.

Those men who were foolish enough to let me go? They miss me like the sonofabitch. Go ask them if you must.

WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?

I have never been in more serious deadlock when it comes to my love life (or lack of it.)

When a significant event happens to my hum-drum existence, it carries with it a set of pros and cons: it gives me the drive to write again about my angst with renewed passion, but it forces me to assess everything there is in my life at the present. The serious question about my intimate life will always rear its ugly head along with my reflecting about my career path.

Really, what do I have right now?

A little flashback is necessary here. A year ago, I had an unbelievable set of erotic friends whom I can call whenever the urge for meantime intimacy strikes me. It came to a point that I can have a different “friend” for every week within a month, well, more than that actually. I always brag back then that I will never lack in sex, because, well, there is always somebody willing to warm up the other side of the bed. I had a wonderful smorgasbord of willing and able men who I can entice to give several hours worth of erotic pleasure, no strings attached of course.

And yeah, there was that a year and a half “relationship” that was more off than on, a time where I both hit rock bottom and reached unbelievable heights at the same time. It was an experience that I would not recommend to anyone except to those who have emotional masochistic tendencies like I do. It was a roller coaster ride that I am not willing to repeat again, but one that I did not regret having. It was a lesson well learned and lived through.

Going to back to the present. As much as I hate to admit it, I am not getting even half of the sex that I used to get back then. Compared to my string of smoldering encounters of the past year, I have been living like a Mormon right now. Not that I haven’t had any this year, hell no. In fact, the most exciting sex that I had happened about three months ago, with a certain gentleman that I would not name here. Let’s just call him “Number One,” because he was at the top of my “to-do” list, and because, well, he truly IS number one, if you get what I’m saying. But he was just a one-night extravaganza, a bright red blimp in a cloudless sky. I think I remember telling Number One after the deed, “Darling, I’ve never felt so fucked!” He is the embodiment of “caviar sex,” something that happens rarely.

Caviar sex – I define it as sex that you don’t get to have often, something that is truly memorable, and not because you did it out of love. It was memorable because IT WAS FUCKING FANTASTIC, no matter what the circumstance was. And you don’t get to eat caviar everyday, right?

But that’s just it. Mr. Caviar Sex and some bits here and there (including Mr. Office Lay, refer to entry number) Aside from that, nothing more. Bubkis.

You may ask, what was the reason for the sudden death (haha) of my sex life? I remember telling my sexy YM flirt mate that “I was fucking more and enjoying it less,” hence my decision to severe ties with most of my boytoys. Not that they were starting to lack in performance or enthusiasm. These select guys are designed to snap into attention at the merest command. It’s just that I have become morosely jaded about the whole thing. Something is missing.

Another favorite line of mine here, from Bono: I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

What is it that I’m looking for anyway?

Here is a bombshell: I am dying to be in love.

Why? I don’t believe that love is the answer to everything, unlike what those sappy love songs tell you. But I do believe that being in love can make a person feel better. It can add color to your life, it can give you something to look forward to, even something to live for.

Hey, I want to feel giddy. I want to feel light. I want to wear a big, goofy smile on my face that will be positively glowing with love. I want to have someone whom I can always hold hands with. I want to have someone who does not mind that I can look smashing in the evening and look absolutely ghastly in the morning. I want to have someone who can kiss me and make everything better.

And most of all, maybe it’s because I now wanted to feel sex differently. What was before an urgent, primal whisper of “You feel so good…” I want to be replaced with a soft, tender sigh of “I love you.”

Wait, I can have both, right? Hehe.

The trouble is, a person as jaded as myself will find it difficult to fall head over feet in love. I am a battle-scarred veteran that has virtually no tendencies of disillusion left in my mind and my heart. I’ve seen it all – the glorious rise and the heartbreaking fall; only I have experienced it more brutally than most people. Plus, I will always have to deal with one excruciating truth: it’s hard for me to find men who will not judge me because of my liberal views and way of life. My future mate has to love me, checkered past and all.

THE TALE OF THE OFFICE LAY

Warning: This is a long one

“A fox should not bother to feed on ants” – Justine

I am not one to be modest about my capabilities and my appetites in bed. This is a trait that some treat with derision and some treat with respect. For the record, I NEVER claim to be perfect, but I never downplayed the fact that I give great head and that I can have the dirtiest mouth when I’m in extreme heat, during which the words that come out of my lush lips can wake Lazarus up from the dead. I can talk dirty in English with the same amount of sensuality I produce when I cuss in the vernacular. I do not claim to be a lady in bed, no, no, but a woman, a coiled snake, a restrained tigress ready to pounce and roar if my partner is male enough to elicit such a primal response from me. This is saying much, but nothing can be farther from the truth. My sexual know-hows is perfectly complemented by my capability to indulge in horizontal exercises just for the heck of it – sex for sex’s sake – and not feel the least bit guilty about it. I’d rather consider it as a form of great exercise, or a no-fail stress reliever.

Now I’m not really a fan of hooking up with someone who works in the same office as I do. I can get my smorgasbord of men somewhere else, from those blasts in the pasts to my current flirt mates, but as much as possible, I try to keep my hands off my male colleagues. I really do not have to explain the million things that could go wrong once you decide to shag an officemate, much has been said and written on the subject that only an idiot will not have the slightest clue.

I did say, as much as possible.

I can still remember the time I made out shamelessly with my gorgeous supervisor back in my Makati days. Those are the instances that still send shivers down my spine, not because I was horrified by the incident, but because damn, I liked it too darn much. I had mental designs on that particular sup ever since he interviewed me years ago, and never in my wildest dreams have I imagined that we will cross that delicate line between a young, attractive male boss and an equally attractive female subordinate. Well, almost. I thanked my luck stars that nothing happened further than that sensual, down and dirty dancing that we did during a party, and those really hot kisses that made the people at the next table stare at the two of us with drool coming down their mouths. The best thing was, he was such a sport about the whole thing afterwards. We agreed, in the most silent of means, to laugh off the whole thing and revert back to being just office mates. Heck, I was grateful for that. As attractive as he was, I was not enticed by the idea of jeopardizing our business relations because of sex. If one of us resigned, then I might have reconsidered, harhar. If one is already out of the office, it is then considered fair game.

Now, I should insert another one of my favorite lines.

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

Past forward to 2007. Another work, another office. I was not exactly on the prowl for new prey, since I was terribly busy with work and my freelance projects, AND I was feeling some sort of disconnection from sex that I cannot find the energy to summon any one of my willing, discreet boys to give me a good one. Really. A few months ago, this statement would have been worth a steaming pile of horseshit, but certain physical and emotional elements have made me disinterested with sex for quite some time. Like, I’d rather roll over and sleep than shag someone. Really.

I wish I could say that I was able to keep up this state of sexual indifference up to this very minute that I am writing this entry. Boring existence, yes, but less problems that way. But my faithful knew me too well. Dr. Jekyll took a break and let Mr. Hyde wreak havoc.

After a li’l drunken spree, my seemingly wholesome officemate and I ended up in his pad, and I indulged in what I thought was unthinkable a few years ago. Let’s just say we shagged the living daylights out of each other. Or at least he did. Mr. Wholesome did a total 360 on me and turned out to be a nasty little devil, far from the boy-next-door aura that he has going on in the confines of the office. Well, he enjoyed it more than I did, primarily because there is too little foreplay involved. I have sensed that part of him hesitated because he told me he has a girlfriend, but his horniness and my irresistibility (haha) got the better of him and proceeded to shag me with all his might.

Rating: 4. And I’m already being generous.

The appropriate ending should be something like the first time I got physical with a colleague: forget about the damn thing and act like it’s nothing the moment we see each other in the office. Simple, right? I mean, we are both mature, consenting adults, never mind that those bottles of San Mig Lite and Red Horse made us throw caution to the wind and got all hot, heavy and obscene. I mean, I have no problems about keeping it cool. I am the mistress of keeping it cool. I will not make such a big fuss about a li’l one night wonder. I’d rather forget about it if he wants me to forget about it. We can go back to being buddies and that’s it. Simple, right?

Simple enough for me. But not for him, apparently. The minute I got to the office, it was total awkwardness, not from my part, but from him. I was totally fulfilling my keeping-it-cool part, but I did not expect such uneasiness from him, something I did not truly understand. He is the man, for chrissakes. You can expect ME to be uneasy, but him? He should be more cool about it than me, since, well, he is a man, dammit.

What was the problem? I have an inkling on what the problem is, but can’t quite put my finger on it. I have to lash out to one my trusted confidantes in order to know the answer to the question that has been nagging me ever since I got home from the romp in his house.

I bugged my already sleep-deprived office mate Ipe and whined that I need to puff on a cancer stick (I already cut down my smoking to almost zilch, except for a stick or two every three days) due to a matter of extreme importance that requires his immediate attention. So there, in front of Mercury Drug, I told him the sordid tale after making him swear on his balls that he will keep mum on the subject. I told him that I have to tell my dirty secret to someone male in order for him to empathize better with my situation.

It went on like this:

Ipe (after mulling over the story for a minute): You know what? I think it boils down to inexperience. HIS inexperience.

Me: Inexperience in what?

Ipe: His inexperience, technique-wise and attitude-wise. First, you said you did NOT have even a teensiest bit of orgasm. That’s bad. I mean, he’s not exactly a little boy, mare. Ideally, he should be on the same skills level as you are. He should know by now, hello, that women need foreplay to get off, unfortunately. Tapos the way he is acting right now? Methinks he was not prepared to take on a woman of your, ehem, experience. In short, he must be shell-shocked with your attitude. Ngayon, he does not know how to deal with the whole situation, could be that nahiya sya dahil ginalaw ka pa, or nahiya sya dahil di nakayanan ang powers mo. Hehe.

Me: Dude, di kaya dahil may girl sya? Isn’t guilt?

Ipe: Duh. For a guy like him presented with a naked body like yours? A lay is a lay, Justine, especially pag super tigang ka. Guilt? That’s horseshit. And the fact na nagkaroon pa ng second round? Hello lang. He wanted you, he just didn’t know how to handle it…or handle you.

So there lies the problem. I was too advanced for him. I picked on someone NOT my own size, and by size I don’t mean the literal built of a person. What I mean here is sexual skill. Or rather, the whole attitude towards sex, more specifically, on terribly liberal matters like one night stands. The master taking on the novice. Master Yoda fooling around with a padawan. Something like that.

Eww, scratch that. Horrible analogy.

So WHOSE problem is it? Is it his because as Ipe said, he was too inexperienced for the likes of me, or is it mine, because I was too experienced for the likes of him? Have I become abnormal? Have I become jaded? Have I become too liberal? Will I experience the same thing every time I sleep with someone close to my age? Will I scare or intimidate them because I am “too skillful” or “too sensual” for them?

What have I become?

Beer. I need beer, Please!

Just a thought…

A fox should not bother to feed on ants.

Hahahaha.

 

More on that later on… 

This is a new blog

To all those who are going to read this blog for the first time, let me inform you that my original one was in Blogspot, which was last updated around November last year. I haven’t been able to post something new since then. I made the decision to transfer all the contents here in WordPress because I felt that the templates available here are much classier than those in Blogspot, so don’t get confused if you see just one date for all the entries that you will read. Those entries were made in 2006, and the entry before this one was actually written October or November 2006.

Just so you guys won’t get confused. Yun lang. Hehe.

The pink slip

 

As soon as I read that email that they circulated in the office, I knew it was going to happen.

It was every employee’s nightmare.My gorgeous supervisor called me into the conference room to tell me the bad news. I don’t have to spell out what he said verbatim, but you’ll pretty much guess that his speech had the words restructuring, cost cutting and redundancy sprinkled liberally over it.

They gave 200 plus employees the axe. Got our asses kicked out of PBCOM tower in less than a day.Some of us damaged goods took the news well, and most of them took it really badly.

Some cried in front of the HR head, and some smashed PC monitors in order to get even.

Kidding.

As for me, I reacted in the most unusual manner. My face was blank, registering no emotions at all. My first question after my sup’s lengthy speech was, “Ok, what about my collectibles?”

There is no use crying over spilled milk. I just had to make sure that I collect money that can tide me over decently till I get another job.

It sucks. This s@%t had to come in the midst of my troubles. God know I am up to my eyeballs in obligations already, being the breadwinner of the family.

As in, hindot talaga.

But yeah, I’m pretty cool. The only thing that pisses me of is that, those f#&kers should have waited till after Christmas to give us the ‘ol heave-ho. They should have exercised mercy and considered that depriving a person of his job a few months before the holidays is REALLY brutal.

Damn them to hell.

May the upper bosses experience erectile dysfunction for the rest of their goddamn lives.

Sigh.

Anyway, as I was packing my things after the meeting (that was the moment I realized that I had soooo much junk in my office drawer, I mean, useless junk that seemed so important a few minutes back) I messaged the sup via YM.

Justine: I guess I have a great excuse to get drunk now.

Him: Yeah. You can get an early headstart on your gimik mamaya.

Justine: Yeah. Goody.

Him: Just don’t get drunk, ok? I mean, don’t get TOO drunk.

Justine: I always get drunk on Friday nights. Job or no job.

Him: Well, if you see it that way…

My next trip was to the HR head, who gava me the same crappy speech that he gave. Then she handed me a check, to cover all damages (READ: to buy me off so I won’t feel so damn bad about losing my primary source of income, which I use to support my old mother and pay for all the bills and debts etc.)

Hindot talaga.Ah what the fuck, I said to myself. I’ll get a job. I always do, easily.

Then I smoked like a fiend afterwards.

When it’s already too much

It’s like this…

There was once a moth who exercised its nature. Upon seeing the brightest of flames, the moth automatically draws itself to the roaring, blasting inferno, even with the knowledge that it may perish once the flames licked it delicate wings.

For the longest time, the moth kept doing this intensely dangerous endeavor, perhaps because it has yet to have its wings burnt, or because, well, because it is a moth, and being one means having an insatiable attraction to the flame.

Then one day, the inevitable happened. The wings of the moth was almost reduced to nothing, and it cannot blame the fire for its behavior. The fire was only exercising its nature. Since then, the moth stayed away from the fire. It cannot risk having the wings burnt to a crisp again. It was a miracle the moth was still alive.

Once I held on even though the pain was already too much to bear. The more pain I endure, the more I get attracted to it. The more the butterfly tries to move away, the more I find ways to capture it with my palms, but still it manages to fly away from my grasp.

But my hands get tired too. I get tired too.Now the more I see pain, or even an inkling of pain, it makes ME fly away.

The more you try to hurt me, the more I stay away.

Getting out of the dark

A sign of maturity?Maybe.

But I guess this is the distinction between the girl and the woman.

The truth is, maturity is not often pretty. It forces you to make decisions that you have to create, no matter how much it costs you. Those decisions are often the ones you wish you didn\’t have to make, simply because it goes against everything that your emotion stands for. But alas, you know that there is a reason why God gave us the gift of logic, instead of giving just the heart. The mind and heart should be equal; either should not be on top of the other. You simply cannot take something that the heart accepts without any reservations knowing that your mind is protesting strongly against it. And vice versa.

Yes, I have made some very important and well, heartbreaking decisions for the past few weeks. Yes, I wish I didn’t have to make them, but the woman who loved violently and lost thoroughly had to return her heart and her head to their rightful places. Yes, it’s not pretty, and yet, it had to be done.

Surprisingly, it’s not as hard as I imagined it would be. I guess when you have already hurdled the obstacle so many times and have already experienced the numerous wounds and aches that goes with the territory, the newest set of pains would not be excruciating. It’s like giving birth to your fourth child; it is not as death-defying as the firstborn. You already knew how to make the ordeal much more bearable than the previous ones. You are already aware of the possible balms and bandages that will make the healing process easier.

And yes, I have found the valium for a heart so ravaged, namely other men. See, I didn’t want to admit to myself and other people that my miseries can be wiped out in great amounts by basking in the attention and advances of other men. I wanted to prove to myself that what I felt was indeed, true and glorious, and that no amount of extra-curricular amours would make me forget the memory. I wanted to prove Shakespeare right, that pain indeed is such a sweet sorrow.

But I failed. My innate masochistic tendencies bailed out on me in this mission. Instead, my mind got the better of my crybaby heart and scolded me like a domineering mother. It sneered and slapped my face and told me, in the most sarcastic of tones, “Haven’t you had enough?”

This character told me to get a life. She told me to get away from hell, for the last time, and to swear never to venture in there again. She slapped my ass and told me that if I have to go in there again, it should be to wreak havoc to the other party and not do it against myself.

It’s time to let go of the bullshit. It’s time to find somebody who truly loves me, not somebody who only does just because there is no one else available, or the one preferred is simply unattainable. It’s time to find loyalty, faithfulness, honesty and sincerity, and let go of treachery, deceit, doubt and God-knows-what-else. It’s time to let go of somebody who makes it a point to hurt me to satisfy his own selfish tendencies. It’s time to push out someone who will not ever, ever appreciate all the love I have given, not in this lifetime, and certainly not the next.

But most of all, she told me not to pick up the pieces. Why pick it up when you create new ones?

Thus, the closure of a dark, turbulent chapter. My personal dark ages. It is about time to shepherd in the Renaissance.

After all, who in her right mind would prefer hell over bliss?