Over

It’s over. I’m over the fact that I can’t get over.

Call it my sweet surrender, if you like. My resignation and complete submission to the unstoppable force and the immovable object combined. Heck, you can even call it my glorious ragequit and tableflip.

But it’s over and I’m freakin’ over the fact that I can’t get over you.

You know, like I’m over the fact that I can’t get over this addiction to comic books and that I may never read “higher” forms of literature again? Did you know I even used to read French and German philosophers who pondered the meaning of meanings of meanings? It was meaningless for the most part. Well, to hell with their academic asses because all I want is my goddamn Batman!

I’m over it. You can’t have everything in this life. And I’m now at this point where I’ve accepted that all I can do is to weather the storm, wait for the sickness to subside, my antibodies to work their magic. I’m still hoping there’s an end to it. A bright, sunny Saturday when I’ll see your face and I’ll be like, “Nah, you’re ordinary and boring.” and I’ll actually not think about it the whole friggin’ day. Ah, freedom!

But that’s not tonight. Tonight I’m just over the fact that I can’t get over you.

Like how I’m over the fact that I’m still not over with that woman and that woman. So many women. Sometimes I feel like I’m trudging along a jungle trail teeming with booby traps, in danger of getting caught or blown to bits with one misstep.

No more struggling against my fate though. I’m just so tired of giving myself pep talks in my head every time I ride the train. No self-help philosophy or solid argument has ever worked anyway. I’ve probably tried to dislike you a hundred times by now but my hormones just don’t agree with me every time you smile, and my defenses forged from mental fortitude can’t help melting like cheap hair gel in some high school boy’s head under the sun.

Damn in. Damn it all.

I’m never gonna be as good as John Mayer with the guitar, anyway, nor as good-looking. I’ll never play basketball without my lungs disintegrating into bopis and an alien bursting out my chest, too. I’ve long given up on my efforts to be retweeted by Sasha Grey or Anne Curtis Smith. I know there’s no way in hell I can last two minutes in the Octagon with Gab Pangalangan even blindfolded with both his hands tied behind his back and me wearing a football helmet. I actually wince like a wuss every time I picture the matchup. Kidding. But rest assured my fear for the man is greater than your love for your pet.

There are simply many things I can’t, won’t and will never do. Like overcoming the spell you’ve put me under. Like imagining singing a song to you, my voice eerily sounding like Elvis and the setting amazingly like the ’50s. Like me and you like the movies.

*shakes my head*

So go ahead and tear me asunder. Or do nothing like what you pretty much do every day. That will also work. Everything works phenomenally at this stage and the outcome will be the same–me liking you so much, it’s bad for my health and my life.

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