Monthly Archives: October 2012

But the Woman Who Will Truly Love Me Would

I wanted to shave. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I shaved or not. So I grew a beard as long as the Taliban’s.

I wanted to comb my hair. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I combed my hair or not. So I never looked in the mirror again.

I wanted to treat my pimples. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I were the biggest pizza face in the crowd. So I let the nasty green buggers spread down to my neck.

I was planning on getting fit. You know, jogging, gym and veggies? But I realized the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t care about my weight. So I scratched out “healthy living” from my vocabulary.

I was meaning to read this novel my friends recommended. But then again the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t give a damn about what I read. So I stuck with comicbooks and started mocking all the idiots reading that stupid novel. Sad, unloved hipsters.

I was looking to visit some old friends. But the woman who will truly love me may not be friends with my friends. So why bother? Let those bridges burn, I told myself.

I was wondering whether it’s time for a wardrobe switch for something more elegant, professional–something girls would find dashing. But then I remembered I don’t need other girls or their taste in fashion. The woman who will truly love me would like me whatever I put on. So I just wore the same 3 sets of jeans and shirts every week ’til they smelled of rotten cheese and onions.

I wanted to save. But the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t do so for my money. So I spent every penny before the next payday and fell into debt with my boss.

I used to envy guys with cars. But the woman who will truly love me would gladly walk with me to the train or bus station every day even if we both end up sweaty and stinky. So screw cars.

I used to use deodorant.

I used to dream about being a lawyer. But why go through all that trouble if the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if i were a bum? So to hell with lawyers.

I used to help in the house. Not anymore.

I used to care about what my colleagues would say about my work. Sorry, they’re clearly not the woman who will truly love me, so they can go ahead and talk behind my back. While they’re at it, they can kiss my hairy crack.

Used to play the guitar even if I wasn’t good at it. The woman who will truly love me wouldn’t force me to be musically pleasing in any way, though. So I ditched the guitar and now I couldn’t play you the G chord even if you put a gun to my head.

Used to write poems. Became virtually illiterate.

Used to sketch. Stick figures.

Eat on time. Ulcer.

Come to work early. Suspended. Fired.

Brush my teeth. Cavities.

Sleep early.

Play ball.

Let old women take my seat in the train.

Tickle other people’s babies as if I really like them.

Well, the woman who will truly love me would accept me as I am. So I became me and fell down the rabbit hole.

Drowned myself in alcohol and dove into first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, fourth-hand smoke. Slept with every skank in search for a slob for the night. Feasted in fried chicken forever without an end in sight. Checked out some nifty booze and got high as fuck. As Spock. And cracked. Door’s locked. At home. No Luck. Collapsed onto the roadside slobbering drunk.

But the woman who will truly love me would always call me back. Whatever I do. She’d welcome me back to her arms.

She’d tell me it’s all right to be imperfect. Nobody’s perfect.

And she’d hold my hand and tell me I’m enough. And then she’d hug me. Kiss me. Sing to me.

So I got lung cancer.

Began to wheeze and sneeze everyday ’til I freaked out everybody in the new office. The woman who will truly love me would’ve understood.

Started spitting out huge blobs of toxic green sputum all over the place. The woman who will truly love me would’ve given me comfort.

Coughed my blood out ’til my gums were soaked in red. The woman who will truly love me would’ve puckered up and sucked my big, fat lips dry.

Ribs quickly rose like a mummy decomposed. Skin dried up pretty fast. Eyes sunk like somebody’s sucking them out the other side of my huge skull. The woman I’m talking about would’ve shagged me still. She’d shag me hard while I’m coughing up ooze in her face. Oh, she’d shag and I’d cough, shag and cough, shag and cough, and then we’d do it all over again.

Of course ’til my boner gave way.

But something tells me she’d still try to stroke it. She’d love me that much, you know?

And then in my final days, I’d write my will. Wouldn’t be able to give my mom anything–not a single dime. She’ll curse me to hell but the other woman won’t.

I won’t have anything for anybody.

Except my undying love for the only woman who will truly love me back all the years of my short life.

Then I’d die.

Unfortunately, I won’t have money for a good burial, too.

I’ll tell my dad to throw my disheveled bag of bones in a river like the way he did it with our dead pet dogs and cats.

The woman who will truly love me would cry the only tears I long for, anyway.

She’d get down on her knees and cry. She won’t be able to help herself.

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Cool Ka Lang. Bawal Magmura.*

Cool ka tangina ka. Bat ganon? Dapat bawal yung ganyan eh. Dapat bawal yung sobrang ganda na, sobrang cool pa. Angdaya lang, parang bumbay. Katarantaduhan ng tadhana yan eh. Ilang panget na losers na walang talent kaya ang iniluwal sa mundo dahil sa batsa-batsang ka-coolan na binuhos sa’yo ni Bathala? ‘Di mo ba naisip yun? Malamang hindi. Kasi ang mga taong pinaka-cool, yung ‘di alam na cool sila. Yung walang kamalay-malay na para na silang Roman gods and goddesses sa mundo ng mga barbaro’t alipin. Ganon ka tangina ka.

Walang katarungan dyan eh. Habang ang ibang normal na tao nagpapaka-trying hard para maging kalog at chillax at kasikmu-sikmura ang profile pic sa Facebook, ikaw umutot ka lang, astig na. Kabalbalan yan. Wala ni kapiranggot na hustisya dyan. Pumuputok ang ugat ko sa batok pag naiisip kong pinalaki kang ganyan kaporma at kagara ng mga magulang mo. Wala na! Game over! Luging-lugi ang buong kwarto pag pumasok ka na. Sayo na lahat ng atensyon; yung iba biglang nago-auto-KSP mode para mapansin mo man lang. Iyo na eyeballs at kwentong kuchero ng lahat ng nandon. Wala ka namang ginagawa ina ka. Nag-exist ka lang! Yun lang ang contribution mo lagi! Pero laging ok na yun at sobra pa–tangina!

Kung ganyan ka kalupet, ano pang mapapala namin pag bumalandra ka na? Ano pang silbi ko? Ano pang kaya kong gawin laban sa ka-coolan mong hayup ka? Putangina ‘di ka pa ba nakapanood o nakabasa ng mga istoryang heaven-and-earth, langit-at-lupa ang pagitan ng mga tao? Ganon tayo eh, leche ka. Para kang kendi sa tindahan na ‘di ko naman kayang bilhin kasi wala akong barya pero naka-display ka pa rin. Wala kang awa. Angcute mo pero mas malupit ka pa kay Odette Khan sa original na Valiente. Bat naman mabubuhay ka nalang sa mundong ibabaw, eh sa ibabaw pa talaga ng buong sangkalupaan? Bat naman nakatapak ka pa talaga sa likuran naming mga busabos? Para kang si Faye sa Okay Ka Fairy Ko pero at least si Faye nainlab pa sa tigalupa. Eh ikaw inamo ka? Posible ba? ‘Di naman ‘di ba? Peste!

So walang kwenta. Wala kang kwentang pag-aksayahang isipin at sulatan at pag-alayan ng pukinanginang kahit na ano. Eh kahit naman ibuhos ko savings ko sayo ‘di naman ako makakatsamba man lang ng kiss eh. O bear hug. O holding hands man lang. O eh ano pang saysay nun? Pambili ko na lang ng pagkain yun mabubusog pa ko. O di kaya ipunin ko na lang pambayad ng Meralco’t Internet, may porno pa ko. Manyak? Tangina kaya may mga manyak sa mundo dahil sa mga cool na mga tarantadong tulad mo! Kaya halos lahat ng lalake nagsasariling-sikap kasi sa totoong buhay, anghirap sungkitin ng mga lecheng katulad mo! Kawawa naman kaming mga kinupal ng kapalaran dahil masyado kang binwenas sa tsamba kang lintek ka!

Kaya sige na, alis na. Parami ka pang putragis ka at nang kumalat ang cool at maganda mong lahi sa mundo. Magpaparami din ako para mas maging malinaw ang linya sa kung sinong cool at hinde, normal at special, commoner at royalty, pesante at panginoong may lupa, peke at original! Sige, humayo ka nang gago ka. Angcool mo. Masyado kitang crush taena ka.

_______________________________

* This one’s not written about or for a real person. It’s just an exercise in free writing and cursing. Although cursing itself is freedom.

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What the First Few Lines of “Love You Like a Love Song” Would Be Like If They Were Incorporated in a Love Letter*

Dear XXXX,

It’s been said and done. Every beautiful thought’s been already sung. Every kind of longing has been written about. But, you know, love doesn’t really care about originality, and, to be honest, the feeling’s kinda trite. Banal. Plebeian. But I guess the funny thing is that no matter how common this feeling is, I’d shoot anybody who dares say what I feel for you isn’t special–because I’m goddamn sure that this is the most unique love as far as cliche love feelings go.

And I guess right now here’s another one of those commonplace, tedious pieces that fruitlessly try to capture the meaning of the ethereal. There’s really no point to it other than to tell you how I really feel and what I think about you, hoping that at least a line or two in this letter amuses or impresses you enough that you’ll take it seriously. But please feel free to crumple and throw it in the trash bin anytime you feel that it’s just boring you too much.

Enough of the disclaimer. I wrote to tell you that you’re all I’ve been thinking about these past few days. Creepy, right? It gets creepier. When I’m alone and the room’s a bit too silent, it’s your voice I hear. Your singing, in fact. You’re not even the best singer (heck you’re no singer at all, sorry) but there you go–your lovely voice in my head. And this song that I never used to like–one pop song by Justin Bieber’s chick–it got stuck in my head after you just blurted crooning it out one day. So what I did was I downloaded an MP3 of it and inserted it in my Top 500 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame album. And the creepiest thing is that after a while, I stopped listening to Jagger and Lennon and Elvis altogether. I hit repeat on Selena Gomez infinite number of times, so your melody will play on and on with the best of ’em.

Why? Because that’s your effect on me. I’m like a water-type Pokemon and you’re electric-type. Everything you do is super-effective on me and I’ll die in three moves. This letter is being written because I am me and you are you. You are THAT stranger in my life that just caused an uncontainable riot when you walked in the door. You are sweet. You are cool. You are intelligent. You are beautiful, like a dream come alive, incredible; a sinful miracle, lyrical. You’re special while I’m typical, so I’m simply bound to put you on a pedestal the moment I set my eyes on you.

But I wanna thank you for adding color to my otherwise dreary days. Remember that night when you touched my hand? I don’t even care why you did that. You’ve saved my life again even though you have no knowledge of what you did. And I’m left wondering what it would be like to have you as my girlfriend. What it would be like to call you “baby.” Can I call you baby? Just for this letter? Well, if you got through all the creepiness above and you’re still reading, I guess you’d let me. Don’t worry it’s almost over, baby, just a few more lines.

What I really want to say is that I treasure you like my ripped comicbook collection. Like my sweet memories of passing Math 11 in college. Like my Top 500 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame album–no, let me correct myself. Like that Selena Gomez song I’ve been listening to for the nth time. And I want you to know, baby.

I… I love you like a love song, baby. I really do. I’m hooked on you like I’m hooked on one of your pop songs. There’s no way to stop listening to it like there’s no way to stop imagining your smile in my mind. I’m a fan and I keep hitting re-peat-peat-peat-peat-peat-peat.

Wishing I were Bieber,
XXXXXX

_______________________________

* This made-up letter was written because it’s true that I’ve been listening to this song for days and it’s been a long time since I wrote something mushy. Couldn’t contain all that mush in. Had to let it rip.

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