I was just messing with my computer out of boredom when I found this peculiar file. And then it all hit me once again. Memories of college affairs (like, yuck) began to return... Bring on the handful of valiums and barf bags.
Feel free to read and criticize this sorry excuse of an article (and then this is the point where I laugh at my own jokes).
Just those I’ve gone to bed with
(And those I wish I would have)
Stuffed with fried chicken and intoxicated with non-fat milk (not a pretty good combination), I begin to remember all of them. I never intended to be mushy; I just want to feel bloated and sick. But no, I just had to let my masochist side dominate.
And so I went into a road of nostalgia, reminiscing all of them who have hurt me, loved me, hurt AND loved me, and loved BUT hurt me.
Accompanied by Anita Baker, I had spent the wee hours of the morning remembering them.
How could I forget the nursing student who, while his wits swam in his beer-filled belly, made me feel the pain of being a bottom? I still can’t let go of the fact that after he broke my hole, he broke my heart too. “Sorry, was just curious. I never meant to hurt you.” Ugh. And did I mention he broke it on Christmas? Puh-lease, don’t remind me of that Wham song. Please. I already went to that phase.
Next in the list, with his oh-so-big, uhm… words coming back into my thoughts, is Jay, the online journalism graduate, who has yummy oriental facial features (definitely a hottie), and a humongous, hmm, well, you know.
Then there’s Michael, the British travel agent, whom I met (and fell in love with) online. The one who liked me and promised to meet me here in February was the same guy who cut all our forms of communication, and, in an instant, broke my fragile heart (mush alert).
Next comes Warren, the chinky-eyed cutie who was a radio DJ from a US-based station in Japan. After nights of phone conversations and, ahem, cock-teasing, we finally met. Then I never heard from him again. His short message (sorry, it would never work out. You’re a nice guy though.) just made me grab the nearest hard object and knocked my head with it .
And then, Mark, the chubby yet hot Filipino business management major; the one who made me smile with his cheap attempts of cuteness, the guy who promised me bliss.
He, like the rest of them, left.
I thought that if I could handle journalism ethics, master news reporting styles and strategies, and remember different writing techniques, then having relationships (which I thought is like making a newspaper) would be easy. But I was wrong. Definitely wrong. But why do I always have to know it the harsh way?
I know, don’t tell me. I’m dumb when it comes to that l-word (and I’m not talking about lesbianism or laxatives, if you’re trying to be funny). I’m so sick of being a slave to this, this emotion, that I even loathe uttering it. But the other side of me tells me to hope, to dream, to fantasize that one day, I’ll meet him. Whoever he is.
See, I really am dumb. Sheesh. Now could you help me learn that when a guy fucks my ass, it doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to fuck (positively, of course, but then again, do we fuck negatively?) my heart too?
Maybe I just need some sleep. Or antacids. Hmm.