To Wednesday, w/ Love & Squalor
She killed me.
She did.
This is probably the closest thing to what-have-you that I will ever write something about a girl--and a lousy one at that. And since it is not in my nature to be mushy like most hopeless romantics are, let me start this out with an offering—an irrelevant bouquet of zeros and exclamation points:
0000!!!!!00000.
Credit for flower arrangement is mine.
*****
Had we met a few years back, we could have been a fine couple of heathens. But we are no more than a couple of two-timing scums resolving an issue of disgust to the world in general with which we both share a distinct attitude of indifference. And we just satisfy ourselves with the what-might-have-beens of our lives.
Yes. We’ve got issues.
*****
She has a husband--a hulk I never met and whom I’ll never want to meet--who, she claims, is a struggling jazz artist in the U.S. of A and is probably one who sings Nora Jones.
*****
We both work in the same company in the same department which nobody in his right mind will ever be proud of. The only thing the job could contribute to you is to slowly turn your brain into mush—provided you have one—and eventually let you develop a habit to incessantly pick your nose. We say the same shit for seven and a half hours a day until we practically forget what we are supposed to say.
The only requirement to qualify for this job is your ability to nod and stupidity.
And it’s a real pain in the ass that we work for people who have the mental ability close to that of a chimpanzee and the maturity of a 15-year old. All they do is walk around and show off their useless education and useless breeding in a useless environment.
I don’t know how we both got in there.
Don’t ask me.
I don’t know.
Really.
*****
And we are both drunks. She is a self-proclaimed alcoholic who would throw up after a few belts and yours truly is a self-professed disciplined individual who could not resist alcohol if offered.
And it is in one of those notorious drinking sprees in a bar that it all began.
(I had already sort of given up drinking at that time. But once in a while I play hook and wreck my life.)
*****
We had been acquainted for quite some time, though our conversations were limited to superficial social claptraps during breaks from work. And the acknowledgement of each other’s rotten existence was only made evident through a simple nod everytime our eyes met.
Yes, it was all about common decency.
*****
I was drowning myself in beer and smoking like a chimney when she passed me a note in that dingy bar where cheap and pea-brained losers go. She passed the note through a common friend in which she asked me to follow her after around fifteen minutes so we could talk.
The note was doodled on a small piece of paper, which
I threw away, apparently torn from a notebook. Or probably it was scribbled on a tissue paper. I can’t remember.
The signature was incomprehensible.
She was drunk.
So it goes.
*****
I never followed her the way she intended me to in her note in the bar but we managed to talk somehow. Her friends—who were common acquaintances—were about to leave; she said she wanted to stay with me.
What-the-hell.
She pulled me in a corner—or I pulled her in a corner; I can’t remember who did what—flashed me her 75-watt smile, stood straight, looked me in the eye, and said: “I want to stay with you, that is if it’s okay…”
I wanted to tell her that she was a drunk punk. I
wanted to tell her to fuck off, to go home. Scram.
I am not usually emotionally susceptible to flattery and ardent professions of admiration. But she was just so fucking endearing that for a moment I stopped to think.
In my head: “You’re drunk. Go home.”
What I said: I like you, too. Stay.”
*****
I took her home.
*****
Both of us have successfully cultivated the look of bored contempt. But together, there is no room for boredom. We always find something to amuse us and make us forget whatever it is that bothers us for a moment. And we always seem out be out of time.
*****
I eventually learned that that she could sing like a canary. She sang songs for me, probably not in the same fashion she would have done when she was still a show band vocalist before she got a regular job, with her guitar and all, after a few days of belting beer and practically getting numb with alcohol at my place.
Her voice hit me. It was, and it still is, warm, sort of fuzzy, rich and darkly spicy. Her voice is something that would linger in your ears; something that sounds so huge coming from a small person—seductive, but not in a blunt way. It is soothing and brooding at the same time. It could be angry and fragile in both ways, like a thin piece of glass that would shatter any minute.
*****
I had the purest intentions when I took her to my place, and also nervous trepidation. I wanted to be sure she was sober—that she had any semblance with normalcy—before she went home alone.
*****
It is not my habit to take drunk women home because drunk women are most likely gonna be pain in the ass.
A lot of them couldn’t take care of themselves more
than a gurgling baby could when they’re intoxicated.
And she was seriously stoned at that time. She was just as numb as a surgical patient who had an overdose of anesthesia. And she was so like a kid I felt I had the burden of guilt and responsibility to whatever may have happened to her had I left her by herself in the bar.
She slumped on my bed when we finally got home, before which it almost took eternity fumbling for my keys, and slept like a baby.
I stared at her for god-knows-how-long.
I was torn between sleeping beside her or on the floor.
I didn’t want her to wake and find me beside her.
I thought: The last thing I would want is a drunk girl accusing me of molestation.
But what-the-hell. It’s my room. So I slept beside her.
Like a baby, too.
*****
And when we woke up we just did what we had to do.
*****
There were a lot of times she complained to me about her hubby who treats her like trash and doesn’t appreciate any of her desirable qualities. And it hurts her more that she’s being treated that way by someone who doesn’t know shit from his elbow.
It occurred to me that she’s a toad kisser. She believes, or so I think, that any toad could be turned into Mr. Prince Charming if only kissed enough.
She thinks she could be a fixer, trying to fix things that had been broken. Her husband is too broken he thought everybody in this world is broken and that being broken is the normal state of the world. Probably that is why he tried to break her.
And he succeeded.
Her husband is someone who believes that a woman should only stay at home. He could go into a litany of verbal abuse against her, feel sorry later on, and try to make it up to her through apologies and what-have-you.
She’s scared her husband might beat her eventually. She told me he has tendencies to do so and she’s scared she might end up a battered wife.
What I’m scared of, though, is her tendency to go right back to him and get battered again. Some women just get addicted to battery they just couldn’t get enough getting punched in the eye.
And they call it love.
Tough shit.
*****
She refuses to call what we have a relationship. She says a relationship is something normal and that what we have is something that rises above social norms.
Connection, is how she calls it.
*****
We are both tired of people’s egos and of escapist trash. All those goddamn egos running around like beheaded chickens pretending to be warm. It’s not like as if we need friends who would tell us what to do or how to behave. All we want to do now is to be ourselves again.
We find it frustrating—and exasperating—how everything we do could be so tiny and meaningless. We find everything so futile and unnecessary.
We also think it’s funny how people could be so goddamned stereotyped—doing and wearing the same shit. And the sad part is, if you try not to be labeled, if you try not to conform or do something weird or crazy just to stand out, then you are conforming just as well—with the non-conformists.
Our issues are rooted in despair, not focused on any one thing. All of them are general, like bad air.
*****
We had a date once. A real date. A date I never had in years.
Yes. She paid the tab.
*****
It took us hours to find the right spot where both of us could enjoy. We ended up in a bar in which acoustic music is the game.
Both of us were laughing and smiling and kissing like demented kids who were given enough lollipops to last them a lifetime.
She danced, I swayed. I don’t dance. I never will.
It’s death or never.
We were so damn happy and almost oblivious to the crowd. And that was the first and last time that I saw her 1000-watt smile.
It was just so fucking exhilarating.
That smile would linger.
It will.
*****
I thought she would only be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am experience.
I was wrong.
I eventually felt all her frustrations like a cut, like a personal wound. And I find it disappointing that there is nothing I can do to help her. We both thought this was only a game. A game that turned out or would turn out sour, acerbic—a game we wouldn’t want to end, although we know it has to and it will—soon.
*****
She told me once that I killed her libido. Sex is something we do probably out of necessity or boredom and not out of mania.
I once became coldly angry when she asked me why I don’t usually take her. I don’t look at her the way I do to sluts with jiggling, dimpled flesh. I don’t want to jump her like a deranged monkey. I hate it, really hate it, when women generalize that all men have a dip-stick sex and slobber and pea-brained arousal.
Most men probably do.
Count me out.
I don’t treat sex as a panty raid.
So from that you could deduce the fact that reproduction is not our main business.
*****
So days whisked by like panties, the way you would count the days of the week through the color of your underwear when you were just a little girl—Monday is for white, Tuesday is for red, blue for Wednesday, flower spots for Thursday, and so on…
*****
There were bad times, too—times when both of us were too irritated with just about everything and the unlucky shock absorber is the other one—either her or me; times when we almost broke up, mostly my fault everytime I’m drunk and too stupid to say things she’s not supposed to hear. I even called her a bitch once.
*****
And I think we are both worried about the same thing—that in the long run we would find what we have between us is as common as everybody else’s relationship, that it is a labeled kind of bond between the two of us, and that we would tire of each other.
That is what she said.
That is what’s really in my head; that is what I’m really scared of.
*****
She has this habit of saying things when she’s drunk which she would never acknowledge when sober. Or probably she’d admit them and say they don’t mean a thing. Things that would make you expect so much and soon make you feel frustrated and stupid for being a sucker.
She could be so sweet, so damn sugary, when she’s drunk.
*****
She wrote me things she must have forgotten by now—notes on how much she loves me and how she doesn’t want to lose me and how she doesn’t want me to consider her as just one of my girls and stuffs that could really be so mushy which you wouldn’t expect form a girl like her and of which I’m a sucker for.
I can’t help but smile. And I can’t help but be paranoid.
She once told me I’m a hopeless romantic.
I am not.
Or probably I am.
How could you label such things?
*****
We usually drink at my place. We drink a lot and eventually neglected our jobs. Now we find ourselves on the verge of getting laid-off.
Fine. We are not that dumb to wait for the execution.
So we collectively decided to resign instead.
And now I’m thinking how we could work things out now that we won’t be in the same company anymore. We would barely see each other and eventually not see each other anymore.
*****
I feel wretched and naked at the same time. This isn’t how I wished this story to go. Not in this style and certainly not in this voice. And I feel stupid that it only occurred to me at this point that this isn’t me anymore. I have completely let go of my guard. Now I’m mushy.
*****
Somewhere in there I thought, even half-believed, that I was her scapegoat—no, that I was somebody who would fill in some unknown void in her life at the time being which she would certainly dump in the long run.
She used to be so verbal on how she feels about me, which later on dwindled to a few articulation of her sentiments towards me which leaves me despondent at times.
Sometimes I wanted to make myself believe that this isn’t something I should take seriously. But I have fallen into the trap and I once told her I felt wronged and that I would certainly find it unfair that if, after this attachment, she would feel nothing and I would be left hanging, begging for more.
She asked me a lot of times if I consider her a burden.
She is, probably.
She is a burden I would like to carry until I drop dead.
She asked of me the same thing to my friend, to which she received this reply:
“He’s having the time of his life.”
*****
My paranoia stems from the fact she told me on how she gets challenged by men who don’t seem to pay attention to her. She would flirt around and take it as a trophy if the man fell for her. And she’d dump him. I don’t know if that’s what she really told me or if that’s what I understood.
But to tell you the truth, there a lot of times I thought I was her big joke—a joke she could always turn to when she feels weary.
Either way, she could lie. And somehow I learned of her ways on how she could ignore people. She would turn off her cell phone or she wouldn’t reply to messages she received. She has this ability to completely ignore you and make you worry like hell if she wants to and she wouldn’t feel guilty at all. She would say sorry time and again just to let you shut up and she’d repeat the same things again because she never really acknowledged them as a mistake.
*****
She keeps doing that to me and right now I’m beginning to feel wrath building up. This ordeal is just so exasperating. It annoys me a lit whenever she doesn’t respond to my messages or if she turns off her phone.
It’s so fucking infuriating to know that she’s doing it intentionally! And it is so maddening that she’s getting the result she wants—that I worry and that I feel bad. It drives me mad that I can’t get to the point that I would not let her obtain her purpose, that I would be insensitive to her extremely foolish emotional power trip. But I know I’m getting nearer to that point.
Damn near.
Lately, I noticed how she only remembers me when she’s drunk. She would never be aware that there is a guy waiting for her messages when she’s sober.
And it felt bad. I still feel bad.
I don’t know if I still have the knack for lying. I have bitten my tongue enough.
I usually get doubtful if she’s telling me the truth. But there’s nothing I can do, anyway. And the last thing I would want is to spoil what we have by being so damn insecure. So I always let her have hey way, though I still tell her how I really feel.
A steady relationship couldn’t be built on lies and deceit.
And love couldn’t dwell with suspicion.
*****
What she’s been doing to me now is just about the same way she had done with her ex-boyfriends—telling me and letting me feel in the most subtle manner that she doesn’t need me anymore.
I wonder if she ever did.
*****
And if that happens, the twelfth line of this crap is justified.
*****
Sometimes I also think she’s still having an identity crisis. She wants to prove to herself the things she can and cannot do.
But if she doesn’t know herself, then who am I?
05 February 2005
Dagupan City
She did.
This is probably the closest thing to what-have-you that I will ever write something about a girl--and a lousy one at that. And since it is not in my nature to be mushy like most hopeless romantics are, let me start this out with an offering—an irrelevant bouquet of zeros and exclamation points:
0000!!!!!00000.
Credit for flower arrangement is mine.
*****
Had we met a few years back, we could have been a fine couple of heathens. But we are no more than a couple of two-timing scums resolving an issue of disgust to the world in general with which we both share a distinct attitude of indifference. And we just satisfy ourselves with the what-might-have-beens of our lives.
Yes. We’ve got issues.
*****
She has a husband--a hulk I never met and whom I’ll never want to meet--who, she claims, is a struggling jazz artist in the U.S. of A and is probably one who sings Nora Jones.
*****
We both work in the same company in the same department which nobody in his right mind will ever be proud of. The only thing the job could contribute to you is to slowly turn your brain into mush—provided you have one—and eventually let you develop a habit to incessantly pick your nose. We say the same shit for seven and a half hours a day until we practically forget what we are supposed to say.
The only requirement to qualify for this job is your ability to nod and stupidity.
And it’s a real pain in the ass that we work for people who have the mental ability close to that of a chimpanzee and the maturity of a 15-year old. All they do is walk around and show off their useless education and useless breeding in a useless environment.
I don’t know how we both got in there.
Don’t ask me.
I don’t know.
Really.
*****
And we are both drunks. She is a self-proclaimed alcoholic who would throw up after a few belts and yours truly is a self-professed disciplined individual who could not resist alcohol if offered.
And it is in one of those notorious drinking sprees in a bar that it all began.
(I had already sort of given up drinking at that time. But once in a while I play hook and wreck my life.)
*****
We had been acquainted for quite some time, though our conversations were limited to superficial social claptraps during breaks from work. And the acknowledgement of each other’s rotten existence was only made evident through a simple nod everytime our eyes met.
Yes, it was all about common decency.
*****
I was drowning myself in beer and smoking like a chimney when she passed me a note in that dingy bar where cheap and pea-brained losers go. She passed the note through a common friend in which she asked me to follow her after around fifteen minutes so we could talk.
The note was doodled on a small piece of paper, which
I threw away, apparently torn from a notebook. Or probably it was scribbled on a tissue paper. I can’t remember.
The signature was incomprehensible.
She was drunk.
So it goes.
*****
I never followed her the way she intended me to in her note in the bar but we managed to talk somehow. Her friends—who were common acquaintances—were about to leave; she said she wanted to stay with me.
What-the-hell.
She pulled me in a corner—or I pulled her in a corner; I can’t remember who did what—flashed me her 75-watt smile, stood straight, looked me in the eye, and said: “I want to stay with you, that is if it’s okay…”
I wanted to tell her that she was a drunk punk. I
wanted to tell her to fuck off, to go home. Scram.
I am not usually emotionally susceptible to flattery and ardent professions of admiration. But she was just so fucking endearing that for a moment I stopped to think.
In my head: “You’re drunk. Go home.”
What I said: I like you, too. Stay.”
*****
I took her home.
*****
Both of us have successfully cultivated the look of bored contempt. But together, there is no room for boredom. We always find something to amuse us and make us forget whatever it is that bothers us for a moment. And we always seem out be out of time.
*****
I eventually learned that that she could sing like a canary. She sang songs for me, probably not in the same fashion she would have done when she was still a show band vocalist before she got a regular job, with her guitar and all, after a few days of belting beer and practically getting numb with alcohol at my place.
Her voice hit me. It was, and it still is, warm, sort of fuzzy, rich and darkly spicy. Her voice is something that would linger in your ears; something that sounds so huge coming from a small person—seductive, but not in a blunt way. It is soothing and brooding at the same time. It could be angry and fragile in both ways, like a thin piece of glass that would shatter any minute.
*****
I had the purest intentions when I took her to my place, and also nervous trepidation. I wanted to be sure she was sober—that she had any semblance with normalcy—before she went home alone.
*****
It is not my habit to take drunk women home because drunk women are most likely gonna be pain in the ass.
A lot of them couldn’t take care of themselves more
than a gurgling baby could when they’re intoxicated.
And she was seriously stoned at that time. She was just as numb as a surgical patient who had an overdose of anesthesia. And she was so like a kid I felt I had the burden of guilt and responsibility to whatever may have happened to her had I left her by herself in the bar.
She slumped on my bed when we finally got home, before which it almost took eternity fumbling for my keys, and slept like a baby.
I stared at her for god-knows-how-long.
I was torn between sleeping beside her or on the floor.
I didn’t want her to wake and find me beside her.
I thought: The last thing I would want is a drunk girl accusing me of molestation.
But what-the-hell. It’s my room. So I slept beside her.
Like a baby, too.
*****
And when we woke up we just did what we had to do.
*****
There were a lot of times she complained to me about her hubby who treats her like trash and doesn’t appreciate any of her desirable qualities. And it hurts her more that she’s being treated that way by someone who doesn’t know shit from his elbow.
It occurred to me that she’s a toad kisser. She believes, or so I think, that any toad could be turned into Mr. Prince Charming if only kissed enough.
She thinks she could be a fixer, trying to fix things that had been broken. Her husband is too broken he thought everybody in this world is broken and that being broken is the normal state of the world. Probably that is why he tried to break her.
And he succeeded.
Her husband is someone who believes that a woman should only stay at home. He could go into a litany of verbal abuse against her, feel sorry later on, and try to make it up to her through apologies and what-have-you.
She’s scared her husband might beat her eventually. She told me he has tendencies to do so and she’s scared she might end up a battered wife.
What I’m scared of, though, is her tendency to go right back to him and get battered again. Some women just get addicted to battery they just couldn’t get enough getting punched in the eye.
And they call it love.
Tough shit.
*****
She refuses to call what we have a relationship. She says a relationship is something normal and that what we have is something that rises above social norms.
Connection, is how she calls it.
*****
We are both tired of people’s egos and of escapist trash. All those goddamn egos running around like beheaded chickens pretending to be warm. It’s not like as if we need friends who would tell us what to do or how to behave. All we want to do now is to be ourselves again.
We find it frustrating—and exasperating—how everything we do could be so tiny and meaningless. We find everything so futile and unnecessary.
We also think it’s funny how people could be so goddamned stereotyped—doing and wearing the same shit. And the sad part is, if you try not to be labeled, if you try not to conform or do something weird or crazy just to stand out, then you are conforming just as well—with the non-conformists.
Our issues are rooted in despair, not focused on any one thing. All of them are general, like bad air.
*****
We had a date once. A real date. A date I never had in years.
Yes. She paid the tab.
*****
It took us hours to find the right spot where both of us could enjoy. We ended up in a bar in which acoustic music is the game.
Both of us were laughing and smiling and kissing like demented kids who were given enough lollipops to last them a lifetime.
She danced, I swayed. I don’t dance. I never will.
It’s death or never.
We were so damn happy and almost oblivious to the crowd. And that was the first and last time that I saw her 1000-watt smile.
It was just so fucking exhilarating.
That smile would linger.
It will.
*****
I thought she would only be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am experience.
I was wrong.
I eventually felt all her frustrations like a cut, like a personal wound. And I find it disappointing that there is nothing I can do to help her. We both thought this was only a game. A game that turned out or would turn out sour, acerbic—a game we wouldn’t want to end, although we know it has to and it will—soon.
*****
She told me once that I killed her libido. Sex is something we do probably out of necessity or boredom and not out of mania.
I once became coldly angry when she asked me why I don’t usually take her. I don’t look at her the way I do to sluts with jiggling, dimpled flesh. I don’t want to jump her like a deranged monkey. I hate it, really hate it, when women generalize that all men have a dip-stick sex and slobber and pea-brained arousal.
Most men probably do.
Count me out.
I don’t treat sex as a panty raid.
So from that you could deduce the fact that reproduction is not our main business.
*****
So days whisked by like panties, the way you would count the days of the week through the color of your underwear when you were just a little girl—Monday is for white, Tuesday is for red, blue for Wednesday, flower spots for Thursday, and so on…
*****
There were bad times, too—times when both of us were too irritated with just about everything and the unlucky shock absorber is the other one—either her or me; times when we almost broke up, mostly my fault everytime I’m drunk and too stupid to say things she’s not supposed to hear. I even called her a bitch once.
*****
And I think we are both worried about the same thing—that in the long run we would find what we have between us is as common as everybody else’s relationship, that it is a labeled kind of bond between the two of us, and that we would tire of each other.
That is what she said.
That is what’s really in my head; that is what I’m really scared of.
*****
She has this habit of saying things when she’s drunk which she would never acknowledge when sober. Or probably she’d admit them and say they don’t mean a thing. Things that would make you expect so much and soon make you feel frustrated and stupid for being a sucker.
She could be so sweet, so damn sugary, when she’s drunk.
*****
She wrote me things she must have forgotten by now—notes on how much she loves me and how she doesn’t want to lose me and how she doesn’t want me to consider her as just one of my girls and stuffs that could really be so mushy which you wouldn’t expect form a girl like her and of which I’m a sucker for.
I can’t help but smile. And I can’t help but be paranoid.
She once told me I’m a hopeless romantic.
I am not.
Or probably I am.
How could you label such things?
*****
We usually drink at my place. We drink a lot and eventually neglected our jobs. Now we find ourselves on the verge of getting laid-off.
Fine. We are not that dumb to wait for the execution.
So we collectively decided to resign instead.
And now I’m thinking how we could work things out now that we won’t be in the same company anymore. We would barely see each other and eventually not see each other anymore.
*****
I feel wretched and naked at the same time. This isn’t how I wished this story to go. Not in this style and certainly not in this voice. And I feel stupid that it only occurred to me at this point that this isn’t me anymore. I have completely let go of my guard. Now I’m mushy.
*****
Somewhere in there I thought, even half-believed, that I was her scapegoat—no, that I was somebody who would fill in some unknown void in her life at the time being which she would certainly dump in the long run.
She used to be so verbal on how she feels about me, which later on dwindled to a few articulation of her sentiments towards me which leaves me despondent at times.
Sometimes I wanted to make myself believe that this isn’t something I should take seriously. But I have fallen into the trap and I once told her I felt wronged and that I would certainly find it unfair that if, after this attachment, she would feel nothing and I would be left hanging, begging for more.
She asked me a lot of times if I consider her a burden.
She is, probably.
She is a burden I would like to carry until I drop dead.
She asked of me the same thing to my friend, to which she received this reply:
“He’s having the time of his life.”
*****
My paranoia stems from the fact she told me on how she gets challenged by men who don’t seem to pay attention to her. She would flirt around and take it as a trophy if the man fell for her. And she’d dump him. I don’t know if that’s what she really told me or if that’s what I understood.
But to tell you the truth, there a lot of times I thought I was her big joke—a joke she could always turn to when she feels weary.
Either way, she could lie. And somehow I learned of her ways on how she could ignore people. She would turn off her cell phone or she wouldn’t reply to messages she received. She has this ability to completely ignore you and make you worry like hell if she wants to and she wouldn’t feel guilty at all. She would say sorry time and again just to let you shut up and she’d repeat the same things again because she never really acknowledged them as a mistake.
*****
She keeps doing that to me and right now I’m beginning to feel wrath building up. This ordeal is just so exasperating. It annoys me a lit whenever she doesn’t respond to my messages or if she turns off her phone.
It’s so fucking infuriating to know that she’s doing it intentionally! And it is so maddening that she’s getting the result she wants—that I worry and that I feel bad. It drives me mad that I can’t get to the point that I would not let her obtain her purpose, that I would be insensitive to her extremely foolish emotional power trip. But I know I’m getting nearer to that point.
Damn near.
Lately, I noticed how she only remembers me when she’s drunk. She would never be aware that there is a guy waiting for her messages when she’s sober.
And it felt bad. I still feel bad.
I don’t know if I still have the knack for lying. I have bitten my tongue enough.
I usually get doubtful if she’s telling me the truth. But there’s nothing I can do, anyway. And the last thing I would want is to spoil what we have by being so damn insecure. So I always let her have hey way, though I still tell her how I really feel.
A steady relationship couldn’t be built on lies and deceit.
And love couldn’t dwell with suspicion.
*****
What she’s been doing to me now is just about the same way she had done with her ex-boyfriends—telling me and letting me feel in the most subtle manner that she doesn’t need me anymore.
I wonder if she ever did.
*****
And if that happens, the twelfth line of this crap is justified.
*****
Sometimes I also think she’s still having an identity crisis. She wants to prove to herself the things she can and cannot do.
But if she doesn’t know herself, then who am I?
05 February 2005
Dagupan City
Page created: February 25th 2006 06:56 PM
Page updated: February 25th 2008 02:30 AM
