Forgetting the Remembered VI
Yes, if only I can rip my heart off me and give it to him— wait, let me put it first in a shiny glass bottle and wrap it intricately with barbwire— I could have done that before graduation. But it seems the barbwire caught and squeezes my heart everytime I think of him (like now).
From the start, I know the problem with this one-way relationship: it’s one-way. Period. And I’m the only who can end this. Period.
"Parts, Redhorse lang ‘na," my buds would say as they always numb their broken hearts with bottles of beer. I don’t like Redhorse (I’m a SanMig baby—Pilsen or Light will do) and I don’t drink down my problems. Really (I drink when I feel like it or if there’s a celebration).
I’d rather comfort myself with a tumbler of ice cream, a cup of tomato soup, a good book, a new pair of colored socks or a couple of Korean/Japanese/American horror-kadiri to death-blood-and-gory movies (And I recommend "Hills have eyes," "Bunsinshaba," and "Hannibal" trilogy—yumyum—among others. (Lawlaw ang "Saw" trilogy, "Hostel", and "Grudge 1 and 2" …and the "Ring" series left me laughing).
"Gurl, lalake man ‘na ang bulong," my girlfriends would advise me. Oo no? So I gave this one a shot. But none of them lasted for a week. Most of them were just giggly crushes. You know, the ones you see in the malls (and wonder if they’re straight), inside the jeepneys (and wonder if they’re snatchers or a hold-up gang member), inside the church (and wonder if they’re Seminarians or not), or inside an eatery at night (and wonder if they’re …).
Some of my girlfriends offered me a second option: textmate. I declined this one because I’m not into it. Uyang sa load, uyang sa tiempo, uyang-uyang sa into-anay. Don’t get me wrong but I’d rather let my thumb exercise with the TV’s remote control ‘no?
"’Day, basi babayi imo," others would joke me. Hay, if there’s an L-bone in me, dugay na (kakaloka dayon amon family e; daw Centrum —complete). I’m 101.5 % -ehem- woman.
Being tagged as a "tomboy" is not new to me because they (whoever they are) usually associate my not being a "girl" with my clothing preference, with the crowd I’m hanging with, with the books I read, with the opinions I have with homosexuality.
Tsk. Sige na lang; let them exercise their privilege of giving opinions.
"Lakat ka na lang e," said someone whom I can’t remember… (or was it I who suggested this to myself? Hhhhmmm….) Since I wanted to do adventures on my own in a not-so-faraway land and if it’s the only way that I can start a new page in my life— free from him and from other reasons—why not?
And so, with all of my comfort books and other comfort stuff, I left this beautiful island on the last week of May 2006… However, I made a mistake. I intentionally left his picture inside my mini-address book.
Nevertheless, the quest to grind and pound my feelings for him continued.
As I srtuggled in a new environment and with people who are Visayan racists (those who mata-mata you because you are from a ‘province’, because you have an accent, because you’re seemingly wide-eyed innocent to them…. but these are the same people who will exclaim in surprise na— "Huuwhhaaat?! Nag-airplane ka? May SM din pala sa inyo? Like duh… From what province of Luzon are you from anyway? But of course, there are always a selected few who are true-orange— back to the story), I also struggled to wash his memories off me.
Lame as it is, however, I also attempted to do some re-connection with him (it’s what you call stupidity over matter).
At times, I would find myself typing "hi, musta na u?" or "elo, jst dropping by to say helo" (redundant a…) in my cellphone but when I scroll down for his number, I would delete the words and push the thought of sending him a message aside.
On my 21st birthday (my first birthday away from home but thank God, my Tatay’s with me), however, I summoned all my strength and texted him a message— a pabati- bati that it was my birthday (voice insert: despereda….why don’t you come to your senses. Me: hey, he’s the one who asked me when’s my birthday. He must’ve remembered it. voice insert: desperada…).
Yehey! He replied.
"Ay sori gid, Starve*. Nalipat ko," his text message read.
Ouch. Then it must be true: that men can’t remember "the" dates. (voice insert: why will he remember your birthday? Are you his girl? As if… me: hey, ask a number of girlfriends and wives…They will pledge to it… voice: bitter ka lang ‘ya…)
Good thing, I have good friends who called me up(as if it was written in the imaginary script) and belted out versions of "Happy Birthday" and the famous "Sing, sing a song" (I don’t know the title) of Vic and Jose in Eat Bulaga! They just know how to make my day (up to now).
But a wound is a wound— adding a little ngutngut to my barbwired heart. I must’ve love pain— a lot, because I never stopped hurting myself— with my own stupidity.
I would click on his friendster account and see what’s happening to him (of course, with the anonymous echus on). Good thing, there’s Friendster… The bad thing is that you can just view and view him like a stalker… and grieve if you find out that he has someone else… Ah! There’s the delete option! But can it delete the person from your heart? Ha? Ha? Sabat?!
