Martes, Agosto 2, 2011


Hon? Ney? You never call me that, Love. Who's "Hon"? Who's "Ney"? Who the f*ck are you texting? Tell me, who the f*ck?!

5 minutes. 10 minutes. No reply. 15, 20, 30...still no answer.

My breath races with my thumb as it clicks 'Contacts' types 'T' scrolls to 'Tin My Lab' and presses 'Call'. My heart joins the race.

"Sorry, the subscriber cannot be reached. Sorry--" My head explodes.


Remembering hurts. Like squeezing calamansi on a fresh open wound. I should've seen it sooner. The signs and f*ck all. Terms of endearment were the first casualty. She used to call me "Babe". After that cute pig in that movie. But I'm not cute. I'm just a fat vegetarian driven by hormones. Next to go was her Victoria Court voice and Ocampo Street accent. Then came the hurried "hi"s and short "goodbye"s. The cancelled dates and her long alibis. The unfeeling kiss. "Mwah!" "Tsup!" and "*" replacing the actual contact. Her wrong 'Send's. Outboxes left unanswered. I should've seen it coming. Like sh*t hitting the electric fan.

The clear cold liquid burns my mouth. Now I know why it's called blue--G.S.M. Blue. I flush it down with Tang strawberry. That's her favourite flavour too: Trust strawberry. Tears well up again behind thickly framed black glasses with bottom-of-Coke-bottle lenses. As Marlboro comforts my lungs, but never my heart. I fill them close to bursting. Will pumping them Hope make a difference? I mope. I munch on peanuts for pulutan called Happy, but no, not me. On the background plays Dashboard Confessional. 'Screaming Infidelities' echoes in my room long after the Ipod's battery has ran out. Just as luck and my girlfriend have on me. I feel like the stick in a barbecue. The piece that people nibble on but don't eat. Like the sh*t that gets left on the side of the plate in debut birthday parties. Arrrgh, the burden of her thought is killing me.

Please, pull the f*cking plug of the fan already!

*I Heart Punk Rock