Today was really fun :) After jogging hahaha I spent the morning with
Jed. We hung out and had breakfast in FoodBox. It was great being with him and waking up that early. I got to bed around 2 am the night before so I was kind of buggy when I had to wake up. The sheets were so perfectly inviting I was actually tempted to just lay there and forget about the whole plan and maybe make him come straight to the house instead. But we went ahead as planned and then walked around a few. I've never been so comfortable with anyone my whole life. I mean yeah I can get a little grungy with other people but Iono, I didn't even take a shower [MUY
GROSS] and i didn't bother shaving my legs. [it's like I'm building a forcefield to repel members of the opposite sex now] I just love spending time with him. I can be myself around him,and I think he feels the same way too. I'm glad :) He's such a sweet boy
♥ and I love him. I just wish we could have spent the whole day together instead of just the whole morning. Now, I sound clingy. It really is important to have the ability of being totally comfortable around someone you're dating. I mean there are levels of comfort that we're automatically placed in depending on the type of person you're dating. I've comiled the following list, to be edited as soon as I feel like it, which is not any time soon.
Here they are in increasing order based on the subject matter you are able to discuss with them:
-People you can talk to about other people picking on you or backstabbing you, your problems in school like grades and stuff
-People you talk to about your younger brother/sister being annoying
-People you talk to about deep family shit like vacations and why you they wont let you have your own car
-people you talk to about the hurtful things your parents say to you when they get upset with you
-people you talk to about your past heartbreaks
-people you talk to about your past experience.. you know
that kind of experience. SEX.
-people you talk to about all your insecurities, your deepest fears, your problems
-people like
JED :)
yeah i know,
cheesy post. :p
She had a cat and that was the least of it. She had towels – not the terry cloth kind – she had towels of the grainy kind; the ones that scratch your face if you rubbed too hard and too fast. She was used to the towels she had though. Apparently her bulls were also quite used to her lean, long, slender... towels. “towels are towels” they would say. They never really cared if her towels were rough, in fact, they quite liked it. They actually loved it when she would wrap her towels around their muscular broadsides. They did not mind if she smoked a pre-coital cigarette while osculating with them. The white stick hanging limply in the side of her mouth would sometimes burn them when they got too rough. She was the divine Zeus to Europa. Her cat had much to say about that. “How could you say it was 'like throwing a hotdog down a hallway' when you're still on it then, love?” Her cat was a hefty one and it would often resemble a camel's hard stepping pad on her gym days. Her name was Minora. The woman's name was Minora. (was is because she died). Her cat's name was Marjorie and it was a dyed Marmalade. They had a lab, yeah. No one understood the word play. But her towels, oh. When they weren't grainy or rough they could be smooth as silk like a lazy drawl or a mouthful of honey. On her active days, Minora could contract. She could shrink so tightly small that everyone [all the men at least] would go, “Oh this innocent! Miss, wog, eh? MIZUAGE!” They would always scream her name. The bulls would scream her name. But often her name changed. Sometimes she'd be Suzie, Lip or Glandale. Karen, Bev or Rugth. Rught, Rugth... oh she did not have one of those. Her towelette was smooth. She had failed to grow one in her glen of delights. Whenever she was cowed by her bulls, yes, they were hers, her shoulders sloped ever so womanly and it resembled forever rolling hills. But her hills were not hills. They were abundant with life and they glowed with pride. Only her hills could have expressed such pride as she would puff up her horizon. The noon sun would leave shadows that could devour her bipads. The pot in which she manufactured those organics to chemical energy so she could move about was also a sight worthy of odes. Rising and falling for each breath – it had a button. This button was neither here nor there but it was there. Right there, easily missed. And you just did! Oh what a shame. Her HEAD! She had gaping optics that could turn a man to stone and his stones to wood. Each flutter of those flaps of fleshy skin on the frillies of her optics could cause a hurricane in China all the way from where she stood which was here and there and San Francisco. Those two caterpillars carefully shaped caterpillars above her optics rose and fell in joy, surprise or bad weather. It was said she was the most beautiful personification of whatever could be cowed by a bull in a bright green and orange pasture.
110507
The Harlequin girl went to school to refresh her memory of past lessons learned in the learning institution of Scholastica. She found out that Filippino was the first subject to be reviewed. so she and her friends had 2 hours to waste. they decided to embark on an adventure to Ateneo de Manila and Recto. In Recto her friend had a locense made. Sophia Bianca Concordia. Wooh. And then they arrived at Katipunan, Golden Arches. They met up with Mr. Madrid and sat in the expert guides review class. then they left for they had tp return to Scholastica's to review for english. and then they did. After which their friend Francesca went to a meeting with the Lord. Then they went to Taft's branch of golden arches (where their manager died) waiting for Francesca. then they went home.
My Abulafia
My Machine
Another day has gone by with me thinking of you and remembering your scent as though you were right beside me. I think to myself, as I hear your laughter in my mind and imagine it filling the room, how long it has been since we have decided to part ways. Ironically, we were the first to go. The first to give up, the first to back out of the dance, the tango, The “vertical expression of a horizontal wish” that now serves as a metaphor for our 4 blissful months together. The first of four couples to give up. We, the ones who condemned the other three as hopefuls and naïve unaware, uneducated, ignorami.
We never did believe in love, did we? Until we both fell victim to it.
Now, I suffer the almost unbearable (oh, now I’m just being dramatic) consequence of our naïve commitment, our pathetic attempt at imitating adulthood by reenacting marriage to some extent but just a wee bit before the limits of sexual intimacy.
Sweet, unendurable memories are embedded deeply, etched, forced, imprinted on my mind. Even the seemingly innocent sweet nothings that you have whispered in my ear echo before my eyes droop and I slip into the eternally sweet comforts of sleep. Even your lewd, malicious, naughty and irresistible comments that never fail to “perk me up” continue to haunt my waking thoughts. What do you think I think about when I wake? You, of course. You conniving scum. You bastard of bastards. Jerk of Jerks. You, He Who Lacks Balls. You have done this to me. You have so imbued your being and placed such an impression on me that I am no longer capable of being with any other man, or woman for that matter, without thinking of you, without screaming out your name unconsciously, without being ghosted by your scent.
I realize, now, then, whenever, what we had was almost like a parody. No, more like a farce. Maybe we were brought together by Eros to show us how bad we’ve got it in. We, who laughed off love, shrugged a shoulder and dismissed it, were the most deeply affected of all. Oh no, you were no Romeo, and I myself were no Juliet, but oh did we make such a pair. You, my Ovid, you and your Amores, and I, your mistress, with my stupid, ambitious deception which I would come to later regret. Eros brought us together to mock us for mocking him. No, wait, he brought us together to show us that by making a mockery of his one Thing, we in the end, would be on the receiving end of a very ill joke.
“I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight, it’s so lovely it feels so right. I want to hold you close, soft breast, beating heart, as I whisper in your ear, I want to fucking tear you apart.”
Oh my. My Abulafia. How many pleas have I burdened you with? Oh but you are not burdened by these things for you are only a machine. A medium I have chose to express my emotions. How pathetic this must be. You that I have named after another little machine that has also been used by another tortured soul such as yours truly. An imaginary machine at that, from a book that has taught me so much. A book that became my world for 2 days and a night. What more can I say when all has been said? And with this, I bid you, adieu.
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And last night, you, wretch of wretches called me; Awakened me from my sweet blissful sleep with a modern nuisance called SMS. With the few words “Come sta? Am I invited on the 23rd?” you awoke the dormant emotions within me. The 23rd of April, day of my birth, the day I was born to be with you. I, half expecting that you would probably not reply after I did, told you that yes, of course you were invited. I didn’t expect you to come but, yes, you were invited. There, that said, I can go back and slumber. Then the wretched thing started ringing. Right next to my ear, where it has been a habit of mine to put it next to. And lo, who should be calling at that late hour, but you, my Ovid. And so I answered the call and decided to get up and try to figure out why and what the hell you were doing. A few seconds later, it was hard to miss you see, I noticed you sounded intoxicated. I asked why you called. You asked me of my suitors, who which you rival in a sense that they do something, you don’t , and yet you still expect me to choose you over them. I laughed and shrugged it off because even if I denied the implication, I knew in my bones that it was true. You, being the tease that you are and not realizing the amount of pain you were causing by reopening a closed wound, sang songs in your drunken voice asking for me to help you go to sleep because you could not on your own. This little exchange of “Go to sleep” and “Tell me something to get me to sleep” went on until 2 ante meridian. I did not want to hope again. You were making me hope for another spark. You made me feel like a child, trying to build a bonfire with one wet twig. What did you expect from calling me? That I would just pretend everything was ok and then I could go on letting you make a mockery of myself? Oh no. I knew better than that. As I recount this experience of last night, I realize that by now, you must have probably forgotten that you even ever called me. Oh, the irony of defeat.
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