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October 12, 2012



Reading the things I have written before gives me this funny and giddy feeling in my stomach. I wrote so much about depression, when I was not really depressed I was just moping over some little guy of the past that I now have a vague memory of and if in case I remember something, I laugh at my former shallow self for being head-over-heels for such losers. I’m not being cruel, it is true – I have a cultured taste and sophisticated inclinations in life but when it comes to men, I developed a “distasteful” taste. I was forewarned in the dawn of my teenage years (13 years old to be exact after our daily flag ceremony) by a friend of my mom’s who happens to be our grade school adviser that I had an “almost zero” taste in guys thanks a lot for her knowing about my big crush and stalker ways for this guy in the other class who turned out gay when we got to college. Bulls eye Ma’am! This memory of my first brushings with puppy love and how I was brushed off midway became so relevant even now that I’m a fully-grown medium breasted sexy woman.  


Many men have become the undeserving subjects of my writings and art, I claim my right to being and artist cum writer cum musician, it is just that I was working with all the wrong “muses”. And what is so funny is that in my day-to-day transactions with the world and with the time that walked us all by, I have no memory of a name or just an indistinct haze of a face but rummaging through all the writings or sketches I have made has stored a name to the face or a face to the name. Maybe I shouldn’t really be using my men as subjects if I really want to not be reminded of them another time in the future because surely I have forgotten of them; it’s different when you don’t want to be reminded of something you have forgotten. You get what I mean right?


The best records of my life would be in my sketchbooks and paintings, in the notebooks I keep all my writings, musings and doodles in, and in the music sheets where I have recorded random melodies. I can delete your pictures, throw away all you have given me, move on from you, forget about you but I cannot get rid of the call of love that has made me do such beautiful things. These are art forms that can’t be thrown away. Partly because it took me much effort and partly because whatever sour grapes you might hear from me, you still are a part of my life. At that moment, it was perfect, it was love, the universe conspired to bring that moment together and in my eyes together with my emotions, you were the demigod.


I’ve been through the worst heartbreaks, maybe three times in my life? I gave the third shot my best shot thinking it would be the last time but here I am again on my computer writing the night away which I usually do when sad things inspire me and to keep me from thinking of ghosts in my room since the sadness is keeping me awake. I was told by my counselor in the past that the first time I fall in love, I would love that that person the most the second time is when it’s the opposite, the other person would love me most and the third person I meet would be the one I would spend the rest of my life with. This is a recurring statement in many of the “love themed” things I wrote because that guidance counselor really engraved that in my young mind who knew nothing of love. So I gave the third serious try a good shot because I thought that this person was the third person, “the one you spend the rest of your life with”. Turns out we can’t work out the rest of our lives since he has different ideals for a partner and I had big dreams, it was real but it was not something that could carry-on longer – a short-lived but beautiful #23.


You may be asking, what is with #23?


No, Michael Jordan is not my life icon even if that is his jersey number nor is 23 a special date. Well folks, let’s just say that since I entered puberty and started growing breasts I haven’t had a break with the boyfriends. So 23 is… go figure. That’s my number (just in case, this is an allusion to the Anne Feris’ flick “What’s your number?”).


With my number, many have been relieved, surprised, gave gasps of disbelief, OMGs, WTFs – I’ve heard them all. And my number gave me the role of dating adviser to friends, threat to other women and many other roles some of which I really didn’t like. It is easy for me to get a guy I like in any situation from a quiet café (I got a handsome surgeon from the other table who went out with me to dinner two times in the week just recently), a bar (basic and a good place to get air heads and lowlife) or in an academic convention (great place to get the good catches but you have to be as smart as I am, haha  =D ). It’s easy for me to read a man and twirl him around in my fingers.


Now I’m very bored with men because I hear all the same stories, pick-up lines and use all the same on them. I don’t want to increase my number, so 24 has to be the winner because he will make it official that moi has had two dozen boyfriends in her lifetime. He just has to be the one this time. I don’t want to go overboard with the number because it has its consequences as well.


Maybe I’ll give credit to 23 because after everything, we’re still in speaking terms and friends, even if we shattered each other’s heart like a bat to a Murano glass. He made me take a pause from the cycle and relish, breath in life and wait for the right one. He’s notorious because he was the only person who made me rethink and stop my ways.


Until I find the right inspiration, until I find someone good to write about, to worship with my art and romanticisms, I’ll be lounging in with life being BOLD and aiming for the stars.


I’m seriously thinking of getting a Micheal Jordan logo tattoo just to give credit to my number. Hahaha. 


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