Let me tell you my idea of a regular weekend when I get 30:
I am awakened by the turning-on of the television, the NBC on its regular morning weekend news. Its 8:00 AM, and the back of my neck hurts from last Friday night’s huge alcohol splurge. I take a slight glance at the looming light seeping through the closed curtains. I reach for the remote control to turn-off the TV but I had to look for it all over the room, naked. My bed room is a mess of literature books, porn magazines, blueprints from work, used condoms, empty Yellowcab boxes, DVD’s, shirts and unwashed mugs.
Naturally, I draw my curtain open, now with a towel on my waist and a cup of hot cappuccino as I go out to the balcony. I am on the 14th floor of a snobbish condominium, and the view of the New York skyline on a summery Saturday morning is quaint. I read the New York Times and realize it’s already a month-old. I stay 15 minutes more, slowly sipping my coffee as I think about the things that have happened the entire week and the subtly pretty, laid-back weekend ahead.
I am torn between deciding whether to take a walk in the neighborhood to buy some stuff for the empty fridge or to grab my camera and take a day-off to the Central Park with my Pomerian, Bert.
The day is slow so I take a sweater, some sticks of cigarette, then walk a few blocks. Some beer, two boxes of cereals, fresh apples and strawberries, a cartoon of milk, an order of croissant, and some pasta pack my paper bag that I hug on the left while I read the newspaper I am holding on the right: another short walk home, with some intermittent stops for the usual rounds and bends of the neighborhood.
When I arrive, I check my phone and a friend from work asks for a date later tonight at some play or art-gallery opening. I call back to say I’m having a nice weekend for myself, maybe Peter is free so go call Peter. I check some incoming electronic mails, print those coming from Mama and friends back in Manila and God-knows where. For the next or so minutes, I write an entry for my on-line journal, reply some of the e-mails from work, and do a little pornography surfing on the net.
Shortly before lunch, my knapsack is ready with my camera and Bert is jumping excitedly. A short drive with Bert on the front seat ends up in a joy ride all-over cosmopolitan New York. We buy lunch in some drive-thru, then head off for a picnic at the Central Park.
I take some pictures of Bert while he runs after the fake bone I throw. A little chat with some dog owners prancing through the park, and I call it a day for Bert.
We head back home to see a movie or two, unless I don’t get bored and decide to go out at some ordinary diner for a drink and a sandwich. If I don’t and pity my lonely, introvert dog, I would prepare some steamy dinner for him and a nice serving of pasta for me. We would then stay, couched infront of the T.V., a box of popcorn would be cool and muse whether we truly are meant for one another.
When the night proves to be long and thereby empties our stomach, I would order some cheesy pizza and feed Bert with the crust.
Bert curls at one corner and ends another proletarian day.
By midnight, my lights would automatically shut off, signaling the consumption of another day by this highly defunct New Yorker.
The flicker of my television would be the last shreds of life I will remember for the day.
Last night, I had a date with the most wonderful guy in the whole world.
But I tell you now he was a lousy date. He never stops walking, and when he got tired after two hours of going here and there, he never bothered to ask me if I was hungry or what.
But I don’t mind. His smiles are enough to make me feel full. His soft fingers clasping with mine while we walk make me discount the fact that this man is a real jerk. And fuck, he was dressed so badly with a jersey and corduroy pants that I’d like to pretend I don’t know him.
But since I love this guy, I deliberately enslaved myself to his idiosyncrasies. And did I tell you he had an attention span of a twat? He would leave me one or a so minutes then he would come back beaming with something I don’t understand. Sometimes, he would walk past many people then wait for me somewhere ahead. I would ask why, and he would say he just wanted to see how I look like from where he stood. Crap, I would tell him and he would just laugh at it.
We went to see some fireworks display by the bay. It was already getting late and he was so sleepy. He would rest his head on my shoulder then on my lap as the car drove through the late-night shoppers going home. He liked it when I run my fingers through his lazy head, which by the way still smelled good after our very long day.
And when the flashes of multicolored fireworks finally emblazoned against the dark sky, he tightly hold my hand. Under the umbrella of explosions, we hold each others hand, giggled at the tickle of a wonderful feeling caused by an amazing thing above us, and smiled at each other everytime the skies exploded.
I ended up stinking with his saliva all over my shirt. He fell asleep on our date! He would have been more careful when would just say, straight to my face that I bore him. But no, he fell asleep on my shoulders then salivated!
But I like him still. As we went home from our very lousy date, I thought about a moment from the passing day which would really define him. I could think of none because every minute was his.
And that ladies and gentlemen, was my lousy date.
By the way, here, take a look at the twat.
Henry thinks I am a girl. Henry thinks I only like pink.
But I don’t think so. Henry is not entirely correct. And I am set to prove him wrong.
Henry thinks I like him. Maybe he is right, but to say that I am a girl is just so overrated. He devalues a lot of things, not to mention that I already slaughtered two chickens in my life. Henry is terrified of chickens you know. The feeling is mutual though: chicks are terrified of him.
Henry believes in destiny. I used to think he is my destiny, most especially when he is drunk. But I don’t think he thinks so. But since he thinks I’m a girl, I am more likely to think that I’m right. But whatever.
I think Henry likes my attention. He likes it when I hit his biceps. He laughs a lot when he hears me say the wrong things. He never did snub any of the cigarettes I offered. And when I tell him his polo is tucked-in messily, he let me fix it. I think he enjoys my service.
Sometimes, when I am having a bad hair day and not talking to anyone, he pokes my ribs. If I don’t smile, he does it again. But I don’t smile of course. I would rather hit him. When that happens, in order to stop my rampage, he takes out his cigarette and lights me one. Only smoking can make me still, he knows. And coffee, but that, he doesn’t know.
My father thinks Henry is cool. My mother thinks Henry is bad. Neither two is wrong nor right. I think Henry is both, and more. My father says I should be friends with Henry. Henry is a bully and father thinks I’m safe at school if we are friends. Mother thinks bad company makes bad people. She thinks Henry is capable of turning me into a bully. But my mother was wrong, the same way I was wrong to think I can change Henry into a pleasant person.
Henry likes my company. Maybe because he knows I know when to talk and when not to. I don’t talk to him after he gets into trouble. Henry likes to keep things to himself. He doesn’t like to talk serious things. The only thing we talk about him is his dreams in life. Henry dreams to be a chef, a real good one.
Henry sings very badly. He knows that I think he does. But I still play his favorite songs in my guitar. I let him sing the low notes and I hit the high ones. He always says he should learn to play the guitar. But in 15 years that we are friends, he only knows A, D and a lousy G. That is why every time we are drowned in beer, he only plays Leaving on a jet plane which is just a shuffle of A and D.
Henry sang Leaving on a jet plane on the night before I was to leave for college. He said I might never hear him sing that well. He sang it loudly, but I sense this deep tone of melancholy in his voice. I was laughing heartily of course, but deep inside I wanted to cry. I never spoke when he said I was born to achieve big things and those big things will make me forget him.
Henry said then that if I were a girl, he would not let me go to UP. He said that I am such a terrible sucker for something different. UP is a bastion of weird things, he might wanted to suggest, and that is definitely dangerous. Henry never spoke of anything bad about me, but it felt off for the first time when he said I am just simply too idealistic of everything. Maybe Henry was angry or somewhat close to it, but he was also drunk so it made no difference at all. He then said, in a highly derogatory statement form, that I should consider my scholarship at the local university where he was going.
I went to UP of course. I did not find enough courage to explain my side. And it caused a lot of awful consequences.
That night was the last time I saw Henry. But from time to time, I hear some news of him, all of them horrible, from high school friends. They said he never had a regular school, changing courses every other semester, and changing girlfriends every other week. Alcohol took the better of him, and I can only surmise he uses cannabis or something similar.
Sometimes, I blame myself for Henry’s bad portrayal of life. The many what-ifs play relentlessly in my memory like those ones in Butterfly Effect. What if Henry only wanted for me to stay and that since I wasn’t around anymore, things were pretty much slackened to make excuses for his irresponsible immaturity? What if Henry is only making a fuck you sign on my face, telling me that there can never be a world so ideal like the way I see it?
It is not enough to say that I miss Henry. For once, I can barely identify exactly which kind of Henry I miss. Maybe I would hardly know him now but only recognize the sad things that have happened to him while we were away after high school. Maybe Henry hates me now more than anybody else.
I heard from a visiting high school friend that he asked her about me a month ago. I already asked some friends to tell him I would like to pay him a visit one of these days, before I officially graduate from college.
On that day that we will meet again, I will tell him I fucked up. By that time, I would hopefully have a college diploma which he doesn’t have, but that never changes anything. I will tell him that he should realize no one can spoon feed his college diploma other than himself. And yes, I am still idealistic, but he should also look at the things which I have failed to do to fuel my idealism. I am still nowhere near it after all. And maybe, I changed a bit, but I still like beer and cigarettes. I don’t think he will ever question that.
And of course, I will tell him I am not a girl after all, and he should have realized it when we were circumcised on the summer of fourth grade. If he was just good enough to fix his life, I might think that he still has the balls of a man, just like the rambunctious smart kid I grew up with.
That is why it makes me think that Henry is a girl and not me absolutely.
I am in love with a woman named Felipa.
She may not be the most gorgeous girl but she is sweet and caring like no other woman on earth.
When I speak to her, I have all the attention that a boy deserves. She listens through her heart, like every single word I utter matters more than anything else. Sometimes I feel like I can talk to her forever.
Felipa believes in me more than I have faith for myself. She thinks I’m the greatest person on earth. I could not make her believe otherwise. Her love for me is no doubtful and unfaithful.
I have hurt Felipa countless of times. I could not count the times I made her cry. Should that make me less the man that I am, she never thought of. Felipa forgives and forgets. She has boundless love for me.
Felipa adores everything that I do even those stupid, little ones. She could always see big things in me. Even my mediocrity looks bright for her. I cannot remember a single time she ever questioned my methods of living. She is my greatest fan.
Felipa brings joy in ways I can only imagine. No doubt she is the best friend in my lifetime. She is everything a boy like me can ever ask. Felipa is the only person who cries with me when I’m sad. She knows my weaknesses as much as my strengths. At one look, she knows how I’m feeling. Felipa and I have a strong sense of connection that transcends words spoken.
Felipa never says ‘I love you’ to me. But does she need to say more? Her presence in my life is enough love to keep me alive. When you truly love a person, I-love-you’s are a bit odd. She doesn’t need to repeat herself all the time because she’s felt.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
Henry thinks I am a girl. Henry thinks I only like pink.
But I don’t think so. Henry is not entirely correct. And I am set to prove him wrong.
Henry thinks I like him. Maybe he is right, but to say that I am a girl is just so overrated. He devalues a lot of things, not to mention that I already slaughtered two chickens in my life. Henry is terrified of chickens you know. The feeling is mutual though: chicks are terrified of him.
Henry believes in destiny. I used to think he is my destiny, most especially when he is drunk. But I don’t think he thinks so. But since he thinks I’m a girl, I am more likely to think that I’m right. But whatever.
I think Henry likes my attention. He likes it when I hit his biceps. He laughs a lot when he hears me say the wrong things. He never did snub any of the cigarettes I offered. And when I tell him his polo is tucked-in messily, he let me fix it. I think he enjoys my service.
Sometimes, when I am having a bad hair day and not talking to anyone, he pokes my ribs. If I don’t smile, he does it again. But I don’t smile of course. I would rather hit him. When that happens, in order to stop my rampage, he takes out his cigarette and lights me one. Only smoking can make me still, he knows. And coffee, but that, he doesn’t know.
My father thinks Henry is cool. My mother thinks Henry is bad. Neither two is wrong nor right. I think Henry is both, and more. My father says I should be friends with Henry. Henry is a bully and father thinks I’m safe at school if we are friends. Mother thinks bad company makes bad people. She thinks Henry is capable of turning me into a bully. But my mother was wrong, the same way I was wrong to think I can change Henry into a pleasant person.
Henry likes my company. Maybe because he knows I know when to talk and when not to. I don’t talk to him after he gets into trouble. Henry likes to keep things to himself. He doesn’t like to talk serious things. The only thing we talk about him is his dreams in life. Henry dreams to be a chef, a real good one.
Henry sings very badly. He knows that I think he does. But I still play his favorite songs in my guitar. I let him sing the low notes and I hit the high ones. He always says he should learn to play the guitar. But in 15 years that we are friends, he only knows A, D and a lousy G. That is why every time we are drowned in beer, he only plays Leaving on a jet plane which is just a shuffle of A and D.
Henry sang Leaving on a jet plane on the night before I was to leave for college. He said I might never hear him sing that well. He sang it loudly, but I sense this deep tone of melancholy in his voice. I was laughing heartily of course, but deep inside I wanted to cry. I never spoke when he said I was born to achieve big things and those big things will make me forget him.
Henry said then that if I were a girl, he would not let me go to UP. He said that I am such a terrible sucker for something different. UP is a bastion of weird things, he might wanted to suggest, and that is definitely dangerous. Henry never spoke of anything bad about me, but it felt off for the first time when he said I am just simply too idealistic of everything. Maybe Henry was angry or somewhat close to it, but he was also drunk so it made no difference at all. He then said, in a highly derogatory statement form, that I should consider my scholarship at the local university where he was going.
I went to UP of course. I did not find enough courage to explain my side. And it caused a lot of awful consequences.
That night was the last time I saw Henry. But from time to time, I hear some news of him, all of them horrible, from high school friends. They said he never had a regular school, changing courses every other semester, and changing girlfriends every other week. Alcohol took the better of him, and I can only surmise he uses cannabis or something similar.
Sometimes, I blame myself for Henry’s bad portrayal of life. The many what-ifs play relentlessly in my memory like those ones in Butterfly Effect. What if Henry only wanted for me to stay and that since I wasn’t around anymore, things were pretty much slackened to make excuses for his irresponsible immaturity? What if Henry is only making a fuck you sign on my face, telling me that there can never be a world so ideal like the way I see it?
It is not enough to say that I miss Henry. For once, I can barely identify exactly which kind of Henry I miss. Maybe I would hardly know him now but only recognize the sad things that have happened to him while we were away after high school. Maybe Henry hates me now more than anybody else.
I heard from a visiting high school friend that he asked her about me a month ago. I already asked some friends to tell him I would like to pay him a visit one of these days, before I officially graduate from college.
On that day that we will meet again, I will tell him I fucked up. By that time, I would hopefully have a college diploma which he doesn’t have, but that never changes anything. I will tell him that he should realize no one can spoon feed his college diploma other than himself. And yes, I am still idealistic, but he should also look at the things which I have failed to do to fuel my idealism. I am still nowhere near it after all. And maybe, I changed a bit, but I still like beer and cigarettes. I don’t think he will ever question that.
And of course, I will tell him I am not a girl after all, and he should have realized it when we were circumcised on the summer of fourth grade. If he was just good enough to fix his life, I might think that he still has the balls of a man, just like the rambunctious smart kid I grew up with.
That is why it makes me think that Henry is a girl and not me absolutely.
20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
