Forgive me for posting my previous entry, it just so happens that I really appreciate comments. Sure, it’s selfish and perhaps would seem to ‘defeat the purpose of blogs’ for blog purists out there (if they exist).
It just so happens one of my major love language is: Words of Affirmation, so really comments mean a lot.
Friends, I know you guys understand. Hehehe.
Either I rendered my friends speechless or they just don’t like to be recognized (bitter). If in any case, my blog is becoming nothing short of a graveyard - desolate. But I heard from a big brother (who I dedicated 3 very very short posts to) that it’s impossible for those who doesn’t have a friendster account to leave a comment. Maybe I should encourage more of my friends to friendster, or change to blogger or tabulas -anything except wretched friendster blog.
I prefer the latter. I just don’t know how.
Bitter.
I’m alone. Its coffee break and he is not with me. Perhaps I’m not used to it yet, but if I’m not to be like those unprincipled women who kowtow to their men to come back, I should pull myself together and be indifferent to the situation - dumb social ethics. Besides, I’m very smart, quite successful… pretty? Well… semi-beautiful. Anyway, I’m more than qualified to snatch any guy out there. “Snatch”, yes. That’s the operative term.
Time seems to lengthen when waiting for coffee to cool, funny Einstein didn’t include that when he wrote about time dilation. HAHA - Great. I’m too depressed to admit it, so I’m making stupid jokes. Usually we would be amusing ourselves during these moments, commenting and telling jokes about people passing by, especially those ridiculous socialite women strutting around who –I agree with most movie makers- are abysmally stupid, and those obvious gays who look more like women than I do: nothing against the gay community but I think you can show your ‘gender’ in a more subtle way. Today it’s as if couples in
Makati have quadrupled in number. Damn these bouts of nostalgia.
Funny I’m awfully observant today, maybe because I’m not talking with him, I don’t know. Damn these post break-ups. Every guy I see seems to look like him. Like that one over there, entering the flower shop: with short clean-cut black hair and Chinese mestizo skin color. It’s strange he also wears the same outfit: white sando shirt and khaki shorts with matching sandals. That guy does look like him; it even could be him! Only… way, way back in time; perhaps when we were 18 and still dating. What’s he buying in the shop anyway? A potted flower, looks like an orchid, no, ah, a cattleya; now what kind of girl would want that? Roses are fine, tulips are also safe for someone ‘wooing’ (HAHA, “wooing”) a girl. Maybe it’s not for that purpose; he is after all asking the pot to have a ribbon. It could be nothing more than a gift - an expensive one too - for a birthday perhaps? Since Valentine’s was 4 days ago. How thoughtful. Maybe he has a French name. Guys like him should have French names; like Pierre, André, or Philippe.
My dear Philippe, - am I really as cold and insensitive like you told me I was? If only I told you I think about you everyday. Why did I pick such a bad time to be the same pompous me?
Damn. I warned myself not to speak or even think of his name again. Since it only makes it harder: harder to give up his thoughtfulness, sensitivity, and love - the seven lost years. Why couldn’t he be like those normal garbage guys out there who don’t give a snoot about intimacy and feelings? The world is their dumpsite anyway.
Now all I have is my coffee, an empty seat beside me, and a cattleya –waving goodbye.
