As she fights the rising bile in her throat, she takes a deep breath and controls the urge to call up her friendly neighborhood psychiatrist. She tastes a tiny bit of vomit in her mouth and reaches for her pack of cigarettes, hoping to puff away the seemingly psychotic delusions in her cluttered little mind and praying to some divine being that the nicotine she inhales would have some prophylactic effect on her self-diagnosed mental and emotional dilemmas. She would very much rather entertain thoughts of diabolical intercessions and inexplicable neurosis and could visibly picture herself strapped in a straight-jacket and locked up in a padded room than acknowledge this peculiar feeling of … of adoration, affection, passion and any other permutation of the aforementioned emotions for another human being.

Because as she wakes up in the morning, her first thought of the day is YOU. You who makes her heart beat faster and slower at the same time. You who somehow and in some bizarre way makes her feel whole and complete. You who randomly pops into her inexperienced anarchic head during the day… YOU… yes, you…

You who makes her think that she has a heart after all… that it beats for a reason. You who makes her happier than usual… and makes her want to devote her time, her effort, her whole self to making you feel the same. You who makes her believe that there is some unwritten and unspoken prophecy that this is not just another chance encounter… that by some stroke of luck or holy providence you brighten her otherwise melancholic existence.

With every single day that passes, she thanks every single saint, angel, cherub and other supernatural ethereal deities for making your paths cross.


SHE LIKES YOU. For the person that you are and not for the person you want to mold yourself to be. she doesn’t just like you because of your eyes or your smile or the rippling biceps that have magically developed under precise training programs. she likes the way you look at her and tell her she’s pretty even when she knows she looks like an eloctrocuted medusa with inundated sweat glands, bad hair and volcanic zits. she likes the way you smile at her from across the room or tell her she looks hot even when she’s just wearing her ratty old jeans and a shirt. she likes it when after a long day, you put your arms around her and tell her you miss her.


clothes or cars or money or muscles do not define masculinity. it’s when you open the car door for her, or hold her hand when you walk, or rub her tummy when it aches or when you talk to her about your day and when you listen (or at least pretend to be minutely interested) to her talk about how she chipped a nail, or how she did her laundry or the kinda retarded dreams she had last night…stuff that may seem insignificant compared to the problems of pollution and poverty… but really, she just wants to share her life with you… even to the tiniest detail… to her, a guy doesn’t need guns, or knives, or six-pack abs to be called a real man… a real man makes a woman feel wanted, needed or maybe even loved…


you don’t know it but when you do all of these, she smiles inwardly and thanks her lucky stars because while most girls dream of finding their knight-in-shining armor, she has met her guy-in-branded-sneakers. and she likes the fact that you’re insanely nice because most of the guys in her past are barbaric, retarded, pompous, self-absorbed war freaks who think that mother earth and all living entities should revolve around them. And jerks of such nature are likely to think that she is just another female with an accessible cervix… but she’d like to think that that you don’t see her as such… that you like her for who she really is and not for what she can do to satisfy any penile appetite. She adores the way you talk, and the way you scratch your head when you’re confused, and she laughs at your jokes even when she doesn’t get the punchline. and nowadays, you are the reason behind the smile that she puts on her face… just so you know. 🙂


She likes you enough because apparently, SHE CARES FOR YOU. Even when you get the tiniest scratch or the smallest of sniffles, she starts to wish for superhuman powers to make you feel better and usurp your pain. For every time you get home late or forget to eat a meal, a fine line of wrinkle develops on her twenty-something face. Or when you have a bad day at work or when you just don’t feel well, she wants to fly or teleport herself to wherever you are and give you a huge fat hug and hope to make your boo-boo’s go away. As a childless female, she has the current inclination to divert her maternal instincts towards the people she cares about. And these days, her focus is on you.


SHE WANTS YOU. She wants you like she has never wanted anyone else. she wants you… just you… and she wants you to understand that you don’t have to prove anything because she likes just the way you are…


And just in case it isn’t obvious yet, in case you haven’t noticed — she is willing to take a backseat to everything and everyone else in your life because she understands that these things and those people make you who you are. but she wants you to realize, that at the end of the day, she is like every other girl… she just wants to feel, even in the lowest degree, that every thing she does is appreciated… and that YOU appreciate HER…


And as she exhales the last of the deathly fumes of tobacco, she concludes that she has a few loose screws in her head. For the life of her, she cannot explain the concurrent emotions of confusion and affection. You have dragged her out of her scornful stupor and thrown her into the pits of chaotic bliss.


and she finally surrenders… it is possible. because you make it possible… she is happy. and she is happy because of you. 🙂

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.


(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…

On Love. Or Lack Thereof.

my brain is an incomprehensible mixture of phlegm, lard, mud and stinky decaying earth materials. otherwise described as shit… the putrid excesses of animal gastronomic delights that one would run away from… now if it were only that is easy to get rid of my brain…and the fucked up thoughts,ideas and emotions that are inside it… one ginormous heave and you’d be rid of the unwanted fibers, flush it down the toilet and never see the same shit again for as long as you shall live.

i think too much. intellectualizing stuff can be greatly advantageous. but nowadays, it’s the reason why im falling apart. sigh. the things smart people do. so anyhow, back to the slushy mush that is called my brain. i am getting the almost untrollable urge to bang my stupid head on the marble kitchen counter, crack my thick skull open and lay my brain to rest on top of the ice cream container inside the freezer. i’ve been thinking too much.

you know the cliche adage that goes “mind over heart”? well.anatomically it is possible. i mean, statistically speaking, how many people do you see walking with their heads attached to their pelvic bones right? that’s just the way it should biologically be. the statement mind over heart is physically possible. insert intellectualization. insert the philosophy that everything is a state of mind. bah. huge frikkin’ bullcrap. the things that run in my brain are heavily cryptic that even the most brilliant erm, crypt-keeper (laugh laugh laugh) cryptologist could not decipher it.

so anyhow, the point of this entirely pointless intro, leads to only one thing: LOVE. l-o-v-e. defintion in the gift-to-deranged-literary-expressionists-such-as-moi dictionary — Love is a strong affection, a warm attachment, an attraction based on sexual desire (my,my. i beg to differ), an unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for others and a score of zero in tennis.

i heartily agree to all the definitions aforementioned (except for the last one because all i know of tennis is andre agassi, anna kournikova and lots of grunting during a match) because i’d like to add that when it comes to love, especially if you’re smart,pretty,jaded,cynical and mentally challenged like me, you get zero. oh boohoo. sniff sniff.

you don’t say someone is knocking on my brain. it sounds idiotic. you say someone is knocking on my heart. you say your heart flutters. my heart beats for you. i-heart-you. blah blah blah. your brain doesn’t flutter, beat or (insert desired adjective). your brain just sits there like a rock. all notions of romanticism are synonymous to the heart.

so what is the essence of this brainless composition? the essence of this brainless composition is my brain. and the battle between my brain and my heart. they’re two completely separate entities. sometimes i even think that, athena, the name of my smart,sexy,sultry alter ego, has taken residence in the neurotic garbage bin called my mind. but mary, my sweet, demure, sucker-for-romance personality has lovingly taken possession of my heart. my other multiple personalities have temporarily gone AWOL and went to the maldives for a vacation. i digress. point is, i’m tired.

i know that the heart and the brain can function in perfect symbiosis. (that athena and mary could become friends and hold hands and help each other do their homework and paint their toenails.) my brain searches for logic and reason behind everything while my heart tells me that love is irrationally felt.

my heart has given up. i don’t do love… anymore… cos i no longer have a heart. (and no i did not rip apart my ribcage and put it in the freezer with the porkchops) so now my brain is trying to rationalize every single circumstance in my pathetic sad existence. investigating the unknown, collecting evidence and trying to close this sick case of love or lack thereof. (why? what did i do? where did i go wrong? what can be done? why the fuck did you choose her.. and leave me behind? did i bury the whore-who-stole-the-man-i-gave-half-my-virginity-to’s body in the right place?)

for now einstein feebly triumphs because my heart has surrendered. but Cupid is whispering in my ear… the mind may have won the battle… but the heart may win the war…

I Don’t Do Love.

i don’t do love.

and here you come knocking on my heart like some insipid bastard who wishes to conquer the jaded world i so comfortably live in.

you think you can change me? you think you can turn my perfect little sordid world upside down? you think you can run through my titanium encased cynical little head? you think you can break through the massive cemented wall i’ve successfully built around my stupid heart?

i’ve seen it all. i’ve heard it all. and i’ve felt it all before. this is nothing new to me. you are but one of the idiotic dweebs who think they can mount the insurmountable.

YOU are messing with my mind, buddy.

i don’t like waiting for you to make up that playboy head of yours. i don’t like waiting for your sweet text messages or emails or calls or whatever bullcrap it is that you do because i know you’re leading me on. i.don’

you see, everytime i find myself falling for someone, i get the uncontrollable urge to raise my lovely little leg and kick myself in the head for being lured once again into a trap that i know of all too well. you fall for someone and you start seeing stars before your eyes. you look at mud and see tiny heart-shaped figures. you look at big old rats and think they’re pretty little siamese cats. you look at the trash in your stinky garbage bin and feel compelled to fold them neatly like your la perla lingerie. and then all these corny delusional scenarios form in your lovestruck mind: him giving you a dozen red roses, having candlelight dinner on a secluded beach, him whispering sweet nothings into your eager ear, him flying to the moon just because you said you wanted a moon rock, him and you laughing incessantly at your versace-inspired wedding, you and him playing with your adorable cabbage patch-worthy kids…

aaahhh… the sick little fantasies we conjure up when we thin we’re in love.

precisely why i don’t do love.

you can come knocking on my heart. see if i answer.

you think you can conquer me. you could try.

you want me to wait. stick around.

you want me to care. convince me.

you want me to love you. show me what love is.

Me & You.

‘pick me.choose me.’

i had prayed so hard to god for so long… ‘give me somebody to love and give me somebody to love me…’ done with random hook-ups, done with momentary bliss, done with meanwhile distractions, done playing around… i’ve seen it all and i’ve done it all… i wanted to change.i wanted something different. i wanted you.

you. who changed me.

my mind told me to slow down and think things through but my heart screamed for me to go ahead and take that huge blind leap of faith because maybe, just possibly, you were someone worth taking that risk for. interesting enough? yes. challenging? extremely. worthwhile? probably. me and my fucked up philosophies. and you with your unexplained issues,whatever they may be. make me understand this.

when i love, i give my all. and when i give my all, i mean every single damn thing. i loved you but i began to love myself a little less. i gave too much and left nothing for me. you made it easy to love you. but i guess its hard to love me. or maybe i just wasn’t enough.

in giving up random moments of pleasure and happiness, that’s exactly what i became and what i am to you… just a welcome distraction. just another person at the right place at the wrong time…

i love you is just a phrase. proving that is an entirely different story. then again, there is no story to tell… because there was never even an ‘us’ in the first place. i could’ve loved you more than i already did… you could’ve truly meant the world to me… could have… all you could’ve done was stand by me… but you didn’t.

you weren’t different after all. you’re just like all the rest.

pick me.choose me…fuck me.and leave me.


you wake up to the blaring of your alarm clock. and your brain struggles to fight your peaceful, semi-comatose state of mind. you grumble as it reluctantly brushes off the lovely webs of slumber and dreamland. you open your eyes only to find out that fine pieces of muta are stuck between your lashes and as you disgustedly rub away the yellowish excretions of your tear ducts, you discover the unusual amount of drool on your pillow. you groan and you moan and say, “this is gonna be one of those days.”

your ears begin to function and your sense of hearing recognizes the distant roaring of thunder and rain. you resist the urge to stay in bed covered in your warm and comfy blankets and begrudgingly amble towards the kitchen. you open the refrigerator only to find a tupperware of two-week old spaghetti, an opened bottle of cali shandy and pasteurized cheese sticks. you frown and mentally note to tell your irresponsible mother to go grocery shopping or her beautiful baby girl would die of hunger and starvation. you look at the clock. you have twenty minutes to eat, shower, get dressed and go to work. but for the glorification of procrastination, you plop down on the couch and eat a pack of skyflakes in super slow motion. after dusting off the cracker crumbs and gulping agua, you head to the bathroom.

as you take your clothes off, your body hairs stand on end and you realize how cold it is. you fervently wish for a heater as the cold water comes in contact with your shivering body. you reach out for the bottle of shampoo and it squirts a miniscule amount not even enough to shampoo your eyebrows. you mentally curse your fate.

you get out of the shower with your hair smelling like safeguard soap and get dressed. but oh no, the shirt you were planning on wearing today is still in the dirty laundry basket. you sigh and resign to the idea of a wardrobe overhaul.

you get out of the house sporting your second-rate choice of outfit and mentally curse the gods for the bleak, depressing weather. you hail a cab… no passenger but doesn’t stop. you think the driver must be fighting cataract… and since time is chewing your ass you reluctantly get on a jeepney and absorb all the peculiar aromas the world has to offer. and just when you begin to think that you would go into anaphylactic shock from the rawness of human odor that is distinctively emanating from your seatmate, somebody hops into the jeepney clutching a live,wild,rebellious and possibly rabid rooster with claws bigger than shaquille o’neal’s feet. it scares the living daylights out of you. you get to your destination, scramble from the jeepney and your feet lands on a puddle of mud. your  feet gets soaked, your pantlegs get wet and your blood pressure goes to outer space.

you sigh and start grumbling about the crappy morning you had to your officemate. she giggles and laughs and continues on filing her nails, too absorbed in her perfect world. you think she’s unsympathetic. and you want to pull out her fingernails with barbed wire and a pair of pliers.

today is not your day. your computer short circuits, your pens don’t write, you don’t meet your deadlines, since you obviously don’t have  your computer, and in the middle of the afternoon, you get your frikkin’ period and you realize that you don’t have any stock of the god-forsaken sanitary pads. you curse your uterus for bleeding. you go to the ladies’ room with the intent of electrocuting yourself with the hand dryer and guess what? the toilet refuses to flush down remnants of your gastronomical pursuits. you wanna cry but out of sheer frustration, you resort to punching the cubicle wall with a feeble fist and you end up with scratches and marks and injuries that could possibly result to bone fracture.

you go home with a heavy heart, a throbbing head, injured fists and aching fallopian tubes. you climb into bed and cover yourself with your warm blankets wishing that mother earth would just swallow you up and spit you out to pluto. your doorbell rings and your sister screams that you have a visitor. you scream at the top of your tired old lungs telling her that you don’t wanna see anybody unless it’s the grim reaper who has graciously come to take you to the netherworld. and after she yells back that she thinks you’re an anti-social bitch who needs therapy, you grumble and drag yourself to the front door.

and you look up and you see HIM standing there… the sunshine of your day, your knight in shining armor, your very own prince charming… and he gives you that cute little crooked smile of his, wraps his arms around you and gives you a quick kiss and says,”hi baby. i miss you.” your tired, semi-suicidal heart melts as he hands you a pack of your favorite pasta (!!!), a paperbag full of musketeers,m&m’s and cloud nine chocolates and a box of sanitary pads. aw. you think of today’s series of unfortunate events, look into his cheeky little eyes, smile and think, “yep.this is one of those days.” 🙂