A Sorta Fairytale.

once upon a time, in a human kingdom not so far away, there lived a little girl. a little girl who had an unusually perfect ordinary childhood. like most normal female children, she happily played with her vast collection of polly pockets and barbie dolls, messed with her mother’s make-up and toiletries, played house with her grandmother’s expensive array of pots, pans and assorted kitchenware, frolicked at the beach in her naked glory, gave testosterone-driven boys nosebleeds from jet li-like punches and read books on princesses who found perfect happy endings.

and then this little girl grew up a bit and decided that ordinary wasn’t enough… and she wanted more. she wanted to live a life full of adventure and romance and live happily ever after…

this little girl was me.

and i do have a life. of what sort, don’t ask. adventure, spontaneity and reckless endangerment to self and to others – – – i’ve been there, i’ve done that and heck, i’m still doing it. romance? nah. hot sex, maybe. harhar. and happily ever after is but a fucked-up utopian fantasy.

i’d like to think that i am anything but ordinary. and unlike most normal females my age, i am a mental and emotional retard who thinks that misery has found perfect company in me. and being the miserable wretch that i am, i am intent on dissecting the harsh and sardonic truth behind the fairytales that have disillusioned me and millions of little girls all over the world. the idealistic morons who wrote about happy endings should die slow, painful and agonizingly torturous deaths by peeling their epidermis off and roasting raw human muscle over a cackling friday night bonfire. pre-meditated barbaric murder seems appealing, yeah? happy endings, my ass.

CINDERELLA. the maid-turned-princess fairytale. like OFW’s who become an arab sheik’s seventh wife. the underdog always triumphs in fictional stories. fuck. i’d kill to see the rotting kalabasa in my ref turn into a porsche. if vera wang would be my fairy godmother and jimmy choo would let me wear diamond studded three-inch stilettos… and if only the rats in my house would aspire to make haute couture…then to hell with prince charming. the underlying message in this classic tale is that cinderella’s man had a fetish for feet and shoes and that you can make a man fall for you if you leave a shoe behind… or your brassiere or lacy thongs. it makes them want more. bibity-bobbity-boo.

SNOW WHITE. and the seven dwarfs. the classic prostitute story. little girl runs away from home and lives with seven quirky men. doc, dopey, sleepy, grumpy, happy, bashful and sneezy all represent multiple male characteristics that whores have to deal with. doc – the intellectual guy who will try to impress you with wit and wisdom.the pompous and arrogant and dirty old man type. dopey – nerd.geek.dork.loser. the ones who have a stupid look on their faces and always cums in the first three minutes of sex. sleepy – the type of guy who will bore you to death and snores seven seconds after having sexual intercourse. grumpy – the bad boy. the i’ll-whip-you-if-you-misbehave type. the nymphomaniac who thinks that the vagina is an organ made exclusively for banging. happy – the jolly type. the comic. has a wicked sense of humor which he will use to get you into bed. bashful – the virginal boy. makes you want to murmur into his ears ‘who’s your mama?’. sneezy – the sick type. the ones who carry sexually transmitted diseases like herpes or AIDS or has green semen dripping from his scrotum. sigh. the idiots we have to deal with, eh? hi-ho. hi-ho. off to work you go.

SLEEPING BEAUTY. the narcoleptic lazy ass princess. moral of the story: as long as you’re of legal age, you can lie comatose in a room and your parents won’t mind if some random guy would go in and kiss you or feel you up or have raging hot sex with your carcass. mommy and daddy would even cheer prince charming on while telling you to stay away from the light.and when you do come back from the dead, your eyes flutter open and you sing to him: “i know you… i fucked with you once upon a dream…”

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. girl falls in love with hairy creature. bullshit. i mean, yeah right. welcome to the real world. how can you possibly fall in love with some guy who doesn’t know how to shave, has a vast collection of gargoyles and has furniture that walk and talk? freaky. you expect me to imagine that i could fall in love with the fugliest creature on earth and one day he’d morph into some bronzed greek god with six-pack abs and rippling muscles? hahaha.tickle me senseless. besides, i’m allergic to fur. as the song goes: “tale as old as time… true as it can be… barely even friends…then somebody bends…unexpectedly…” tsk tsk. one night stands are a definite no-no.

THE LITTLE MERMAID. a story based on the principles of trade and barter. mermaid swaps voice for human legs. if i were her, i would’ve made the frikkin’ prince a merman instead. gone were her fishy fins and in came her wobbly legs. apparently, mer-people know zip about human anatomy because she obviously didn’t realize that vaginas exist. humans have fallopian tubes and uterus’ and cervix and pubic hair and when they procreate, a seven pound infant comes out of this female organ. mermaids have it easy. they can just fart out their fishy little eggs and wait for the little fries to start hatching. poor unfortunate human souls. and when merpeople have sex, they don’t need foreplay. they’re already wet…all the time. harhar. as sebastian says ‘ darling it’s better, down where it’s wetter…take it from me…’. sebastian is a male gigolo.

ALADDIN AND PRINCESS JASMINE.

(Jasmine) A whole nude world… My sizzling space you never knew… But when you’re way down there… Engrossed in hair… Now I’m in a whole nude world with you.

(Aladdin) Now I’m in a whole nude world with you.

(Jasmine) Unbelievable size… Indescribable squealing… Leaning, bending, and kneeling… At my moist and gaping thighs… A whole nude world.

enough said.

but seriously. all these fairytale princesses have one thing in common: prince charming. wigs, colored contact lenses, and a whole lotta money makes deception… not to mention adultery and concubinage… very easy. the philandering fool has had multiple identities since the beginning of fairytale time. boys will always be boys.

once upon time, i was a little girl who dreamed of finding her happy ending. do i have the will to wait for prince charming to make up his mind and get over his identity crisis or have i kissed all possible amphibians, reptiles and rodents that there’s nothing and no one to wait for?

maybe there is no such thing as a happy ending… or maybe i should quit searching for prince charming and become a nun… or better yet, become a lesbian. 😉

with or without him.

“… when i stopped being me… i found myseLf…”

mythological stories say that at the beginning of creation, man and woman were but one being. attached to one another as if two creatures were attached back to back – – – two heads, four arms and four legs. but the Greek gods became jealous of these mortals and so Zeus, the supreme lord of Olympus, struck the creature with a lightning bolt, thus creating man and woman. Since then, men and women had to search for their lost half...

question now is, how can we be sure that our other half is out there somewhere? what if we were born to be by ourselves? what if we wait for someone to find us but they never come? what if we search for someone but they don’t want to be found?

i must be sick in the head. i must have some sort of undiagnosed cerebral anomaly because just when my life becomes unusually normal, every neuron in my head overanalyzes the simplest situations and distorts what is basically ordinary. but then again, i am not used to the ordinary because i am not ordinary. i am special. i am a retard who should be put away for pre-meditated emotional suicide.

i quit me. i quit being the contemptuous smart-ass bitch who wallowed in pain and self-pity. i quit being the drama queen who exacerbated everything with a lot of sex, drugs and rock and roll. harhar. but seriously. i have changed. i am not me anymore.

i am not me anymore because now i have him. i stopped being me and i found myself… i found myself because of him.

or so i want to believe. is he the one that i’ve been waiting for? is he the one who holds the key to my frigid heart? or is he the one who will make me realize that i am meant to be alone afterall?

what if i’m happy with myself but lose him in the end?

“… i am happy…”

issue now is: define happiness. how do we know we’re really happy and we’re not just trying to convince ourselves that this is what happiness feels like? what price do we have to pay for being happy?

i am jaded. i have been wronged. i have been hurt. and i have been hurting for far too long that i pain has become a part of me.

i want to quit him. for some sick, inexplicable reason i want to let him go and i want him to let go of me. not because he has nothing great to offer but simply because he’s far too perfect for someone like me. he’s adorably cute, smells so good that you can actually orgasm just by the scent of him (i’m kidding), he has clean, genetically well-shaped fingernails, killer eyes that make my knees go seriously weak in any given moment, he makes me laugh like a half-brained hyena and most of all, he treats me the way i should be treated. you ask, so what’s wrong with that? but my question is: what’s the catch?

what if i find happiness with him and he walks away?

i still think too much. to hell with me and my god-forsaken musings.

i can’t do crap about anything except curse the greek gods. fuck you zeus and your stupid lightning bolts.

Soul – searching.

they say that ten shooting stars can be seen within one hour. and as i sat beneath the surprisingly starry skies one depressingly perfect evening, i patiently wait. i have been wishing on falling stars long before i could construct a coherent sentence. and long before i took into heart the virtue of patience and the essence of waiting. for one hour i stare at the sky… in its vastness, i saw only one. one frikkin’ shooting star. i risk getting cross-eyed for sixty minutes and all for one frikkin star?! if there is a god, he is showing me no mercy.

astronomy is an exact science,yeah? i was ready with ten wishes for the ten stars that are supposed to fall in one hour. don’t tell me i have wasted one perfectly good hour of my busy existence just to be able to make one wish. it’s a conspiracy. just when i have made time to wish on falling stars, the stars decide not to fall. just my luck.

soul-searching. my primary objective as of the moment. after all the bullcrap i’ve gotten myself into the past couple of years, after all the horrific decisions i’ve made, after all the wrong people i have gotten involved with… i have reached exhaustion… this is the point of no return.

elusive happiness. the one thing i could never have. bitterness, sarcasm, cynicism and all other gothic homicidal adjectives have successfully embedded themselves like thick crusty barnacles unto my persona. i was made to be dark and twisty. like a vampire’s coffin from the 1500’s. not bright and shiny. like the million dollar diamond studded brassiere from victoria’s secret.

reciprocity. a chance of sharing my life with someone. a shot at happiness. at the end of the day, to have someone to go home to and talk to and cuddle with and hold me in his arms and make me think that everything i do has meaning. and that my life actually has a purpose. to have someone treat me the way i should be treated… like a princess… like a goddess… someone who actually thinks i’m perfect just the way i am… and to have someone miss me more than i actually miss him… someone who makes the usually stubborn, retarded and pessimistic me turn into a quivering mass of happy jelly with one statement like: “you’re more than enough.” and i thought words were only words… but he makes me think otherwise.

ambiguity. there are no gray areas in my world. everything is in black and white. all questions have to be answered and all doubts have to be erased. me and no one else. stay or go. all investigative queries: the how, why, when, where, what and with who have to be satisfactorily answered. why? because ambiguity leads to questions. and unanswered questions lead to doubt. and doubt means questioning trust. and freakin’ commitment phobics like myself have plenty of trust issues. there is no room for ambiguity in my world.

why am i writing this? is this a pathetic attempt to try and reconstruct some sort of normalcy in my life? why am i doing this? but most of all, what am i doing with him?

i should stop asking questions. i should stop thinking too much. i should just stop. and accept the fact that i could… be happy.

maybe i don’t need to soul-search. maybe i don’t need to wish on ten shooting stars. maybe i should stop asking questions.

because the answer might be right in front me. because all i might need to wish on is just one shooting star. because maybe it’s not my soul that i’m searching for… because maybe, just maybe… all the while, it’s him that i’ve been looking for…