I want you. I want all of you. I want your mood swings. I want you at your worst. I want you when your mad. I want you when your sad. When your falling apart. When you need a hug. If being with you at your worse means being with you at your best.. I'm in.
Omaygad Loreen! Ang galing neto. Ang daming revelations. Haha. So I guess kilala ko yung dalawang former grade school na naging bf mo. Hehe. Pero alam mo bang ~*ultimate crush*~ kita since elementary. Este nung elementary. Ehe.
Anyway, sulat ka pa ah. At ilibre mo na ako minsan langya, ang lapit lang ng office natin.
Hahaha adik ka! SALAMAAT :D sana nga masunod ang part 2. revelations ka jan. Shh! Kunyari hindi ako yan! hahahaha. nyek, ikaw ang manlibre, wala na ko sa ortigas ngayon :)
“I bet you don’t have any idea how you’ve changed my life, do you? Well let me tell you this: before you, I was simply my own self. When you came, I still am my own self, although with the realization that who I am is enough for love to stay. Thanks, bes.”—
Stargirl, introduction to a history of love, part 1 (unedited version)
Waking up with someone else the morning after was never an open option. No cuddling, no startling confession of love and definitely no breakfast in bed. I was never into couplehood, or partnership or anything remotely close to getting deep and personal with another human being. No strings attached sex? Good. No morning after sex? Way better. Saying I love you after every orgasm? Ooh, BURN. You see, I take pride in being able to hold my fort when it came to the battle of the sexes in the bedroom (or whatever room deemed appropriate for having sex, or maybe not a room per se.)
I don’t really know if I’m wired wrong or something but I always just seem to push people away. In fact, I even enjoy pushing other people away. Sometimes I think it may be because I’m afraid of being left out on that I wanted to leave them before they get a chance to leave me. But sometimes I’m arrogant enough to think I can do by myself so well there’s no need to have another person chained to my name subbed “boyfriend” or (yes, I’m bi) “girlfriend.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve fallen in love, or I think I have, a few times before. One was with my high school girl best friend, a former grade school classmate and another former grade school classmate. I even had a kid with the last former classmate (or I’d like to think it was with him.) So I find it easy within my totally-independent-anything-close-to-non-physical-intimacy-repulsive self to safely say I have found and lost love, and hope and trust over and over again. And it was never an easy ride.
Falling in love, losing love, getting love back, putting love off, swearing love off for eternity came with lots of forgettable moments, unnecessary drama, occasional bouts of digital suicide and sometimes, yes, magic. After staying almost five years in a very unhealthy relationship (trust me, I know what healthy is, and it’s not composed of a 10-month drought), I came back to who I once was, or so I thought.
Like what everyone has ever told me, which I seem to constantly hear and not actually understand, “You’ll meet your match.” Eight undeniably “label-free” months later, did I meet my match.
It was 2001 when I first met K. It was also the same year when we became best friends. But it wasn’t until 2002 when we became really close and started hanging out with each other. And it was 2003 when I knew I was already in love with her. Unfortunately, it was the same year she was set to leave the confines of our exclusive school and move on to pursuing a nursing degree in college. So I never got around to telling her how I really felt about her back then. Not until exactly 7 years, 6 failed relationships (2 were pretty serious) and a 2 year old baby girl after.
What we had was a love story eight years in the making. Although, we didn’t really think it was an actual love story until 9 years after when we first met.
Why does everyone keep saying “Fuck the world?” Why would anyone want to have sex with a one-balled half of a man? And for lesbians and straight men, there aren’t even enough holes in it to qualify as a woman. So why? I just don’t get it.
Or maybe I’m just having a Barney Stinson early morning coupled with one too many shots of vodka. Oh wait, that was redundant. Oh no, it would be if you replaced vodka with scotch. Wink. Digital high five, everyone.