Love,
Your Greatest Fan
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Oh Sara Bee.
Love,
Your Greatest Fan
Hair
Of course a girl’s hair is her crowning glory. On a typical day, she could have her tummy burst out of her blouse from a very big lunch and still feel beautiful as long as her hair is. That’s why they call it Bad Hair Day, not Bad Skin Day or Bad Breath Day, when someone wakes up one morning and looks at herself in the mirror and sees something wrong and feels very much uglaaay for the rest of the day, because it is the hair, depending on its condition, that affects the disposition of a person.
When I was a kid, my dad would sometimes steal away my precious time that I was supposed to use enjoying my childhood. He would make me sit in front of him and with a comb on his hand I always knew what he would do next. I hated those times because untangling that excruciating mess also known as my hair was worse than ten boosters or ear piercings (well, I was exaggerating but you got the idea).“You have to comb your hair all the time so that the natural oil will come out,” he used to tell me. When I look at my six year old self in the photos, I realize how beautiful my hair had really been. Oh gosh, if only I listened to my dad, I’d think to myself. But since I did not listen--I did not take care of my beautiful hair that not all girls my age had—my dad eventually gave up on me.
One day he took me to a beauty shop where I lost my pretty, pretty hair. My hair was cut so short that when I left the place, this one lady looked at me and I swear she must have thought I looked like a boy on girls’ clothes. I did not cry on our way home. I just kept looking at myself in the side mirror of our car thinking about how I’ve never seen anything so ugly in my life.
I lost my confidence because of that. During the years while I tried to grow back my hair, I couldn’t use all these pretty, colorful hair accessories like my friends did and I couldn’t join princess games and pretend to be a princess anymore because, as my friends have often pointed out, princesses always have long hair. I felt so left out. Oh, it was really terrible.
When my hair grew back, it no longer was the super straight, glossy hair that it used to be. It became very unruly and frizzy and sometimes on really terrible days, bushy. I swear it was like Hermione Granger’s hair—not Emma Watson’s in the movie but, really, the real Hermione Granger’s.
I wish I could hate my dad because of what he has done to my hair but the thing is that I realized that the unfortunate fate of my hair was because of my own doing. Had I listened to him and had been persistent enough to grab a hairbrush and use it when my hair was beginning to make tangles and all that, then my dad never would have decided to give me a lesson.
When I entered highschool, I decided that it was time to do something with my hair. I needed to get rid of the ugliness that I am each day forced to carry on top of my head everywhere I go. I wrote a 4-page letter to my mom explaining to her how sick I am of being ugly and that, well, I no longer will feel ugly if they do something about my hair. That’s when she decided to have my hair rebonded. I think my parents have had countless of arguments because of that decision my mom made, considering that that was a long time ago and this artificially straightening your hair method called rebonding was still just becoming popular because of one shampoo commercial and it cost at around Php 6,000, and also considering that I was in a really expensive school...well yeah, the point is that they had a lot of arguments. Right now I can totally say that I’ve been selfish that time but back then, I was really just desperate that I would do whatever it takes to get rid of my bushy hair. Anyway, my mom won and I had my hair rebonded, which I tell you, was really worth it. When I sported my new look in school, people were all suddenly complimenting me. Even my ultimate high school crush, who often made fun of me, became flattering.
It definitely brought back the confidence that I’ve lost for a very long time. My hair stayed artificially beautiful for a while. However, I’ve been told that rebonding my hair could cause severe damage and I did not believe it until, in time, it happened to me. Breakages and split ends appeared that I had to say goodbye to my 6,000-peso chemical-coated hair and cut it.
I’m just glad, though, that even if my hair never really turned back to its shape when I was six, at least it also never turned back to its shape when I was thirteen. My hair still sometimes is unruly but at least it never again is bushy.
To date, I must say I have done all kinds of things to my hair already. In college alone I think I’ve worn my hair straight, curly, short and long.
Every girl in this world probably has this one part of her body that she obsesses about. As for me, my hair—after all that we’ve been through—has now become that one obsession. Without a doubt, I’ve spent the most bucks on it, regularly giving it treatments and changing its style every now and then. Like for the recent months, it’s become a ritual for me not to leave the house without ironing my hair first. As in since I received the hair iron for my birthday, I’ve never left the house without using it—even if my destination was the beach or if I’d just be gone for a few minutes to return something I borrowed from a neighbor.
The obsession has probably paved way for my developing narcissistic habits. But again, let me just say this: I really do believe that no matter how much wrong things you see in the rest of your body, if your hair is looking its best, then everything would be alright. I can forget about my blemishes and huge thighs as long as my hair is tamed to perfection. Not many people get it, I know. They wouldn’t understand because they have not been in my shoes. They’ve had lives filled with memories that don’t include being laughed at for looking like a boy or Hermione Granger. Pretty hair has become my obsession—my frustration—because I’ve spent far too awful years not having one. And now I’m just making up for all those years I’ve lost.
When I was a kid, my dad would sometimes steal away my precious time that I was supposed to use enjoying my childhood. He would make me sit in front of him and with a comb on his hand I always knew what he would do next. I hated those times because untangling that excruciating mess also known as my hair was worse than ten boosters or ear piercings (well, I was exaggerating but you got the idea).“You have to comb your hair all the time so that the natural oil will come out,” he used to tell me. When I look at my six year old self in the photos, I realize how beautiful my hair had really been. Oh gosh, if only I listened to my dad, I’d think to myself. But since I did not listen--I did not take care of my beautiful hair that not all girls my age had—my dad eventually gave up on me.
One day he took me to a beauty shop where I lost my pretty, pretty hair. My hair was cut so short that when I left the place, this one lady looked at me and I swear she must have thought I looked like a boy on girls’ clothes. I did not cry on our way home. I just kept looking at myself in the side mirror of our car thinking about how I’ve never seen anything so ugly in my life.
I lost my confidence because of that. During the years while I tried to grow back my hair, I couldn’t use all these pretty, colorful hair accessories like my friends did and I couldn’t join princess games and pretend to be a princess anymore because, as my friends have often pointed out, princesses always have long hair. I felt so left out. Oh, it was really terrible.
When my hair grew back, it no longer was the super straight, glossy hair that it used to be. It became very unruly and frizzy and sometimes on really terrible days, bushy. I swear it was like Hermione Granger’s hair—not Emma Watson’s in the movie but, really, the real Hermione Granger’s.
I wish I could hate my dad because of what he has done to my hair but the thing is that I realized that the unfortunate fate of my hair was because of my own doing. Had I listened to him and had been persistent enough to grab a hairbrush and use it when my hair was beginning to make tangles and all that, then my dad never would have decided to give me a lesson.
When I entered highschool, I decided that it was time to do something with my hair. I needed to get rid of the ugliness that I am each day forced to carry on top of my head everywhere I go. I wrote a 4-page letter to my mom explaining to her how sick I am of being ugly and that, well, I no longer will feel ugly if they do something about my hair. That’s when she decided to have my hair rebonded. I think my parents have had countless of arguments because of that decision my mom made, considering that that was a long time ago and this artificially straightening your hair method called rebonding was still just becoming popular because of one shampoo commercial and it cost at around Php 6,000, and also considering that I was in a really expensive school...well yeah, the point is that they had a lot of arguments. Right now I can totally say that I’ve been selfish that time but back then, I was really just desperate that I would do whatever it takes to get rid of my bushy hair. Anyway, my mom won and I had my hair rebonded, which I tell you, was really worth it. When I sported my new look in school, people were all suddenly complimenting me. Even my ultimate high school crush, who often made fun of me, became flattering.
It definitely brought back the confidence that I’ve lost for a very long time. My hair stayed artificially beautiful for a while. However, I’ve been told that rebonding my hair could cause severe damage and I did not believe it until, in time, it happened to me. Breakages and split ends appeared that I had to say goodbye to my 6,000-peso chemical-coated hair and cut it.
I’m just glad, though, that even if my hair never really turned back to its shape when I was six, at least it also never turned back to its shape when I was thirteen. My hair still sometimes is unruly but at least it never again is bushy.
To date, I must say I have done all kinds of things to my hair already. In college alone I think I’ve worn my hair straight, curly, short and long.
Every girl in this world probably has this one part of her body that she obsesses about. As for me, my hair—after all that we’ve been through—has now become that one obsession. Without a doubt, I’ve spent the most bucks on it, regularly giving it treatments and changing its style every now and then. Like for the recent months, it’s become a ritual for me not to leave the house without ironing my hair first. As in since I received the hair iron for my birthday, I’ve never left the house without using it—even if my destination was the beach or if I’d just be gone for a few minutes to return something I borrowed from a neighbor.
The obsession has probably paved way for my developing narcissistic habits. But again, let me just say this: I really do believe that no matter how much wrong things you see in the rest of your body, if your hair is looking its best, then everything would be alright. I can forget about my blemishes and huge thighs as long as my hair is tamed to perfection. Not many people get it, I know. They wouldn’t understand because they have not been in my shoes. They’ve had lives filled with memories that don’t include being laughed at for looking like a boy or Hermione Granger. Pretty hair has become my obsession—my frustration—because I’ve spent far too awful years not having one. And now I’m just making up for all those years I’ve lost.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Are you real?
He is so cute, so exactly like the image of what you think a boyfriend should be when you are nine or ten years old—what you think your own boyfriend will be, your birthright—that he breaks your heart a little. She hardly knows him (maybe he isn’t that great), but it’s still unfair that only some girls grow up to get boys like this.
-Hannah Gavener from The Man of my Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld
Someone asked me in my Forsmpring which book last made me cry. I recently finished Bridget Jones, yes the mother of all modern chic lit, and did not enjoy it at all. I did not relate to Bridget as I expected I would, I did not cry by the end of novel as I thought I would. Maybe it’s because although like Bridget I am also sick of being single and just like her I also rant nonstop about how alone I feel, she was very much cynic. And if you’re someone who knows me even from afar, that is one thing I will never ever become. If Harry Potter had a counterpoint in the world of Hopeless Romantics, it would probably be me.
So, no. Bridget Jones wasn’t the last book to make me cry. It was The Man of my Dreams.
I bought the book in Booksale for only P50. I remember screaming with excitement the moment I saw it. I’ve been eyeing on the one and only copy of it at National Bookstore and when I finally decided to buy this copy, I was told that somebody went ahead of me already. Frustrated, I went home to Cebu one weekend and I hurriedly went to Fully Booked only to find out that there were no more copies available as well. I asked my tita from the US if she could send me a copy of it and then she kept sending me books that were anything but the one I want. Eventually, I let it go. So anyway, despite the little girl who was beside me, almost teary-eyed from the fright of my sight screaming over a book, I continued with my enthusiasm. The book was meant for me, after all.
I spent one Saturday reading this book, stopping only to highlight my favorite parts. You know the feeling when you get so attached to something you’ve been reading or watching that you feel like it wasn’t just a book or a movie or a TV Show? You feel as if it was your very own life right there printed on pages of paper or there shrunk to fit the box of entertainment. So what if that something turns out to have a bad ending? Or at least, an ending that you don’t like?
I didn’t like the ending of the Man of my Dreams. Simply because Hannah, the heroine of the story, did not end up with, well, the Man of her Dreams. Oh come on, stop looking at me like that. I’m pretty predictable when it comes to things like this. Heehee. ;)
I mean, of course I’d love for her to get what she wants. But considering that she didn’t, and considering how attached I was to the story, it made me kind of fear what my own life’s ending would be like. I’ve been living with the idea that although things are always tough for me right now, in the end I’d still get the Happy Ending I rightfully deserve. And my dream Happy Ending is something that comes straight out of a Fairy Tale book.
But what if Fairy Tales—Happy Endings—really are just some bullshark that Walt Disney purposely fed on girls like me, so that we would be susceptible enough for the society to use up until we’re all dull and filthy?
What if The Man of my Dreams never does exist? Frankly, what I fear most about my future relationships is that I might engage into them with guys whom I’m just settling for. I fear that because of my very high expectations, I will never be contented enough to realize that I have found The One. I probably will keep comparing these guys to my poster guy and think how much they’re not qualified enough to live up to my expectations. They’re always going to be too immature, too serious, too lazy, too hardworking, too short, too tall. Now, I wouldn’t want that to happen because that’s really unfair for them who I’m sure are all going to be amazing.
Oh gawd. I need intervention. :(
Friday, April 23, 2010
My favorite song at the moment.
They're two lovers in the night
Waiting on the sun to rise
Passing ships into the night
Under different skies
But you just whisper what you said
One last time
I could have sworn I heard you say
That you are mine
Faded flowers in your hand
The best that I could do
It's the only way I've had
Of reaching you
I never saw it like you did
Didn't know that it was there
You don't see it in your hand
Until the end
Be the one and only, wait for me
Will you be the only one
Will you be, be the one and only
Wait for me, will you be the only one
What if I knew how to yell
What would I pray
What if I knew how to tell
What would I say
I will be the only one
If you say you'll never go
I'll be screaming out your name
From the back row
Be the one and only, wait for me
Will you be the only one
Will you be, be the one and only
Wait for me; let me be your only one
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Random toughts about Him and Me. Him and Her. Him.
And then the girl happened. And somehow, the girl made pass what I have done to make him like me. And even though it hurts me to see my fear coming true right now, I still keep hoping that even if he loves her, maybe he still has (not that he ever had) even the tiniest of feelings for me too. It’s so pointless to keep hoping and waiting for him. But I just can’t let go. Because he is everything I have ever hoped for. Too bad he just couldn’t see that. Too bad he couldn't realize that. Not that I’m blaming him. Maybe it just never was meant to be. And I have been so wrong all along. And yet he still looks at me like he wants to tell me something.
Oh make me stop please.
Oh make me stop please.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I was The Purple Ink Spoiler Before I Became Virgiliadoracion.
Yes, I had a different identity before I became the Prince Charming-obsessed person that I am today.
Well, it’s not exactly a different identity but just a different pen name. But still, when you’re a writer, your pen name embodies the type of writer—the type of person—that you are. When you’re a writer, your pen name is your identity.
Back when I was in highschool, I was a feature writer for our school paper and because we were required to use a pen name and because of a lack of ideas for a very cool one, I resorted to being the Purple Ink Spoiler. So lame, I know.
I know you’ve been wondering how I became Virgiliadoracion. I got that from my second name Virda which was taken from the names of my grandmothers Virgilia and Adoracion. I love that I was named after two of the greatest women I’ve ever known. But then again, my second name sounds so…so…Birdy. Whatever that means.
Anyways, when I entered college, I ran out of Purple Ink (not literally, of course) and finally embraced the awesome and chirpy Virda me.
I just remembered that this blog Counting Down the Days Until I Meet Him has turned one already. I still remember that time when I locked myself inside my room for one day after discovering that my first blog account has been hacked. Completely hacked and lost all my posts. I guess that was also one of the reasons why I had to say goodbye to the Purple Ink Spoiler. She only will make me remember my beloved first blog. I had to let go and reinvent myself. And now Virgiliadoracion is one! I can’t believe how fast we’re heading towards 2012! OH NO (I was being sarcastic, puhleez, I don’t believe in that bullshark of a theory, and by the way, the movie was such a waste of time…HEE).
But I have to admit that I do miss the Purple Ink Spoiler. So in memory of her, the budding hopeless romantic who was eventually going to become the Queen of Hopeless Romantics, I’m going to post one of her poems I found laying around my long-forgotten treasures.
I think this was written when I was in first year highschool. Notice the rhymes of the poem. And the words that were obviously right-clicked in Microsoft Word. It’s so, so FTW! Hahaha.
THIS POEM IS DEFINITELY FICTION!
Okay, with bits from my own experiences.
Haha.
Thanks for taking the time to visit my blog, whoever you are.
Here's to more years of blogging.
:)
Well, it’s not exactly a different identity but just a different pen name. But still, when you’re a writer, your pen name embodies the type of writer—the type of person—that you are. When you’re a writer, your pen name is your identity.
Back when I was in highschool, I was a feature writer for our school paper and because we were required to use a pen name and because of a lack of ideas for a very cool one, I resorted to being the Purple Ink Spoiler. So lame, I know.
I know you’ve been wondering how I became Virgiliadoracion. I got that from my second name Virda which was taken from the names of my grandmothers Virgilia and Adoracion. I love that I was named after two of the greatest women I’ve ever known. But then again, my second name sounds so…so…Birdy. Whatever that means.
Anyways, when I entered college, I ran out of Purple Ink (not literally, of course) and finally embraced the awesome and chirpy Virda me.
I just remembered that this blog Counting Down the Days Until I Meet Him has turned one already. I still remember that time when I locked myself inside my room for one day after discovering that my first blog account has been hacked. Completely hacked and lost all my posts. I guess that was also one of the reasons why I had to say goodbye to the Purple Ink Spoiler. She only will make me remember my beloved first blog. I had to let go and reinvent myself. And now Virgiliadoracion is one! I can’t believe how fast we’re heading towards 2012! OH NO (I was being sarcastic, puhleez, I don’t believe in that bullshark of a theory, and by the way, the movie was such a waste of time…HEE).
But I have to admit that I do miss the Purple Ink Spoiler. So in memory of her, the budding hopeless romantic who was eventually going to become the Queen of Hopeless Romantics, I’m going to post one of her poems I found laying around my long-forgotten treasures.
I think this was written when I was in first year highschool. Notice the rhymes of the poem. And the words that were obviously right-clicked in Microsoft Word. It’s so, so FTW! Hahaha.
All Because of That Stare
by The Purple Ink Spoiler
I look at you, you look at me
Something is not right, everyone can see
So here I go pretending like I don’t care
But truth is, I don’t know: maybe I’m falling back in-love, all because of that stare.
I have to act like nothing about you matters
But the sight of you within me never , ever alters
I have to make myself believe that you can never be for me
But when you give me just one smile, it’s only you that I see.
How many times have I slapped my face?
To turn to reality and not let myself linger upon the days?—
When you say there can never be another person but me for you,
When you say that your love for me is true.
Every single moment when I see you with her,
It is the awful things that I immediately remember,
But when I’d catch you looking from afar,
It’s like you’re telling me that you haven’t healed that scar.
Why do you keep doing this to me?
With her beside you, you should be happy.
I have already accepted long ago that it’s over,
But now I need to conceal beneath the cover,
So that you won’t see the hurt I’m going through,
All because of the confusion I feel from the stares I get from you.
You once told me that setting me free would be what’s best
So I gave you a smile and turned around, with a profound burden on my chest.
It wasn’t easy to understand what you have done
But eventually I learned to accept that I was never the one.
So in time I went on with my life
And I was glad because after you, I rarely dealt with strife
I made the most out of what I can do
And started finding that bit which is true.
And then one day you came back
I wasn’t prepared, and I divulge that was what I lack
All that used to be came drifting to me once more
And it shocked me since I thought I have totally closed my door.
But mustering all the courage that I have over time reclaimed,
While enlightening myself that I shouldn’t be blamed:
Here I am, telling you that it is too late for us to ever be together again,
And that all you can do is hold on to her ‘til God knows when.
I have to admit that it pains me a lot to say this,
But if I keep tolerating my feelings life can never be bliss.
I should do what’s right,
For no matter what I do I will never win the fight.
Because I have let you go a long time ago,
And actually, you just no longer are the person that I used to know.
THIS POEM IS DEFINITELY FICTION!
Okay, with bits from my own experiences.
Haha.
Thanks for taking the time to visit my blog, whoever you are.
Here's to more years of blogging.
:)
Monday, April 12, 2010
I vow not to join any more sites because the world wide web is not safe anymore.
Best Friend.
If it’s possible to end relationships with boyfriends, then is it also possible to end relationships with best friends?
Yeah, just a random question that popped out of nowhere while I was rummaging through my college stuff this morning. I saw her letters. I saw her pictures. I saw many things that only remind me of her and the things we’ve been through together. I look at these things and feel too much things. Anger, probably. Pity, maybe. Nostalgia, even.
Of course I have not forgotten that I left Dumaguete many weeks ago without settling one heck of a problem with one of my closest friends ever.
I left feeling like the meanest person in the world. She did not even do anything to me—she was just being herself. And there I was treating her like shit.
Yes, I admit I’ve been harsh and completely unfair for the last few weeks of second semester and even for the years I’ve known her. I know that. Despite the fact that she has always been that person who’s capable of running on her high heels from guy hall to our dorm the moment I call her and tell her I’m sick and can’t get out of bed or something. That she’s my punching bag--the only witness to that other side of me I can’t show other people. That she is my, and I quote from a person I know, “Number one fan” (rarr). My non-fictional Samwise. The only person who doesn’t make me feel bad that I still don’t have a boyfriend. So despite all these things, how could I be so mean to her?
It’s because maybe for me she acts too immature. I guess I don’t have all the patience in the world to always have to deal with that. I mean, just like her and any other person in the brink of his or her college life, I have these pressures coming from school work and other co-curricular activities, as well as from my family enough to make me go insane. I don’t need her to add up to my problems. Many times I’ve tried to tell her what I think but every time I do, she only looks at me, not really hearing what I say, probably refusing to hear what I say.
This isn’t about me. Heck, I am not ranting right now because I hate having her burden my entire college life. I do love having her around and although sometimes she is irritating with her ways that remind me of my seven year old cousin, she is my friend and I care so much for her that’s why I need to let this out. For the nth time, here I am saying I want her to do what I’ve always wanted her to do: change. And the reason why I want her to do that is because life can’t always be as fun. Soon, we will be graduating and she would have to work just like everyone else and she would have to meet other people. And she can’t forever keep making these people understand. She can’t forever find a friend who can put up with all her ways. Let’s face it: People outside are harsh—harsher than me, no doubt.
The alarming thing is that because she’s too immature for her age, she appears too vulnerable to others. Because of that, people think that she’s very easy to be bossed around and taken advantage of. I sometimes think this is that one reason why she always finds herself in messes too unbelievable for an outsider to, well, believe.
I also think this is also the reason behind one of her never-ending complaints. She keeps complaining that people keep talking behind her back. Frankly, I think that backbiting is something that we can’t banish of its existence in the world—something that we just can’t delete into every person’s system. The truth is that all of us backbite a lot. What, don’t tell me she never does it? We’re close enough to know that she does it too.
But if you think about it, if people don’t see anything wrong with a person, then no negative comments will come out in the first place. Except people see something in her, and that’s the problem. Almost all people she has encountered here in college that I get the chance to talk with have something negative to say about her. For one, the people from both her previous and current dormitories have all these negative things to say that I so am just sick of hearing—just the same old complaints about her immaturity. But the thing is that when people talk behind our backs, we can’t just put all the blame on them for doing so. Of course we have the right to hate them for quite some time but we must eventually move on with the bitterness and start reflecting on our very own actions. We must eventually understand that there might be a pretty good reason why they are saying all these things.
I know that of all people, I should be the one to understand her. I know most of her problems and I am most familiar with her background. I know for a fact that she’s an only child and that’s a probable reason for her to be sometimes reliant on others. But I know a lot of only childs and they are as independent and as mature as can be. Maybe what she needs to do first is toughen up. Okay. I’m not exactly poster child for toughness and you know what? That’s exactly the reason why I’m suggesting this to her. She’s too much a good person to ever have to go through the things I have gone through because of my sensitivity. I’m saying out of my own unfortunate experiences that she can’t forever wait it out for each problem she encounters to pass by because strong people do action and not sulking. She can’t forever cry on her bed when she hears people talking behind her back. She can’t forever run to people when she’s frustrated with something. For all she knows, the people she runs to may have something bad to say about her as well.
So anyway. It’s given that I am maldita especially when it comes to her but I ask her, is she not maldita with me too? She keeps telling people about my treatment with her while missing out on that detail of her also fighting back. So don’t tell me I’m being unfair. Quits lang.
She’s not really thinking that there must be a reason why I only act like this when I’m with her. I mean, I don’t do with my other friends the same thing I do with her. It’s not that I’m taking advantage of her just because I have a stronger personality and all. No, it’s not that. It’s that I’m far from perfect to be able to deal with her and all her ways 24/7. I’ve known people nearby who can’t stand being with her even for an hour so maybe they could try putting themselves in my shoes. She is with me almost all the time and nearly every single time I’m with her, she never fails to test my patience. I guess we all have our own flaws. Mine, really, is that I get irritated quite easily. Hey, I am not so wonderful and I can’t always control my boiling point.
I guess you could say that the solution here, really, is to just avoid each other for good. Our friendship, I should say, is no longer healthy. To tell you honestly, I’ve already tried many times to distance myself—many times I’ve tried avoiding her and many times I’ve tried explaining to her why. But every time I do she acts in odd ways that makes me feel all awful and guilty.
Even though it pains me to let go of all the memories I’ve made with her, I think it’s really just for the best to keep this distance. I will miss her company but at the same time I can’t bear think about what we could still do to each other in the future if we keep hanging out.
I sometimes wonder about the real reason why we became the best of friends in the first place if we have conflicting personalities. And the only answer I could think of is proximity. If she lived in Edith Carson or somewhere else far away from Woodward and that if we weren’t KabSis and if we don’t have the same religion, then I think she’d just be another friend in college.
As much as people would often say that it’s harder to let go of best friends more than boyfriends, I think this will be, I should say as I set free all our pinky swears and the rest of our sisterhood memories, for the best.
Bye, friend. But I hope that despite this, you’d still be one of my bride’s maids when I get married someday and I hope that I still am, too, when you do.
Yeah, just a random question that popped out of nowhere while I was rummaging through my college stuff this morning. I saw her letters. I saw her pictures. I saw many things that only remind me of her and the things we’ve been through together. I look at these things and feel too much things. Anger, probably. Pity, maybe. Nostalgia, even.
Of course I have not forgotten that I left Dumaguete many weeks ago without settling one heck of a problem with one of my closest friends ever.
I left feeling like the meanest person in the world. She did not even do anything to me—she was just being herself. And there I was treating her like shit.
Yes, I admit I’ve been harsh and completely unfair for the last few weeks of second semester and even for the years I’ve known her. I know that. Despite the fact that she has always been that person who’s capable of running on her high heels from guy hall to our dorm the moment I call her and tell her I’m sick and can’t get out of bed or something. That she’s my punching bag--the only witness to that other side of me I can’t show other people. That she is my, and I quote from a person I know, “Number one fan” (rarr). My non-fictional Samwise. The only person who doesn’t make me feel bad that I still don’t have a boyfriend. So despite all these things, how could I be so mean to her?
It’s because maybe for me she acts too immature. I guess I don’t have all the patience in the world to always have to deal with that. I mean, just like her and any other person in the brink of his or her college life, I have these pressures coming from school work and other co-curricular activities, as well as from my family enough to make me go insane. I don’t need her to add up to my problems. Many times I’ve tried to tell her what I think but every time I do, she only looks at me, not really hearing what I say, probably refusing to hear what I say.
This isn’t about me. Heck, I am not ranting right now because I hate having her burden my entire college life. I do love having her around and although sometimes she is irritating with her ways that remind me of my seven year old cousin, she is my friend and I care so much for her that’s why I need to let this out. For the nth time, here I am saying I want her to do what I’ve always wanted her to do: change. And the reason why I want her to do that is because life can’t always be as fun. Soon, we will be graduating and she would have to work just like everyone else and she would have to meet other people. And she can’t forever keep making these people understand. She can’t forever find a friend who can put up with all her ways. Let’s face it: People outside are harsh—harsher than me, no doubt.
The alarming thing is that because she’s too immature for her age, she appears too vulnerable to others. Because of that, people think that she’s very easy to be bossed around and taken advantage of. I sometimes think this is that one reason why she always finds herself in messes too unbelievable for an outsider to, well, believe.
I also think this is also the reason behind one of her never-ending complaints. She keeps complaining that people keep talking behind her back. Frankly, I think that backbiting is something that we can’t banish of its existence in the world—something that we just can’t delete into every person’s system. The truth is that all of us backbite a lot. What, don’t tell me she never does it? We’re close enough to know that she does it too.
But if you think about it, if people don’t see anything wrong with a person, then no negative comments will come out in the first place. Except people see something in her, and that’s the problem. Almost all people she has encountered here in college that I get the chance to talk with have something negative to say about her. For one, the people from both her previous and current dormitories have all these negative things to say that I so am just sick of hearing—just the same old complaints about her immaturity. But the thing is that when people talk behind our backs, we can’t just put all the blame on them for doing so. Of course we have the right to hate them for quite some time but we must eventually move on with the bitterness and start reflecting on our very own actions. We must eventually understand that there might be a pretty good reason why they are saying all these things.
I know that of all people, I should be the one to understand her. I know most of her problems and I am most familiar with her background. I know for a fact that she’s an only child and that’s a probable reason for her to be sometimes reliant on others. But I know a lot of only childs and they are as independent and as mature as can be. Maybe what she needs to do first is toughen up. Okay. I’m not exactly poster child for toughness and you know what? That’s exactly the reason why I’m suggesting this to her. She’s too much a good person to ever have to go through the things I have gone through because of my sensitivity. I’m saying out of my own unfortunate experiences that she can’t forever wait it out for each problem she encounters to pass by because strong people do action and not sulking. She can’t forever cry on her bed when she hears people talking behind her back. She can’t forever run to people when she’s frustrated with something. For all she knows, the people she runs to may have something bad to say about her as well.
So anyway. It’s given that I am maldita especially when it comes to her but I ask her, is she not maldita with me too? She keeps telling people about my treatment with her while missing out on that detail of her also fighting back. So don’t tell me I’m being unfair. Quits lang.
She’s not really thinking that there must be a reason why I only act like this when I’m with her. I mean, I don’t do with my other friends the same thing I do with her. It’s not that I’m taking advantage of her just because I have a stronger personality and all. No, it’s not that. It’s that I’m far from perfect to be able to deal with her and all her ways 24/7. I’ve known people nearby who can’t stand being with her even for an hour so maybe they could try putting themselves in my shoes. She is with me almost all the time and nearly every single time I’m with her, she never fails to test my patience. I guess we all have our own flaws. Mine, really, is that I get irritated quite easily. Hey, I am not so wonderful and I can’t always control my boiling point.
I guess you could say that the solution here, really, is to just avoid each other for good. Our friendship, I should say, is no longer healthy. To tell you honestly, I’ve already tried many times to distance myself—many times I’ve tried avoiding her and many times I’ve tried explaining to her why. But every time I do she acts in odd ways that makes me feel all awful and guilty.
Even though it pains me to let go of all the memories I’ve made with her, I think it’s really just for the best to keep this distance. I will miss her company but at the same time I can’t bear think about what we could still do to each other in the future if we keep hanging out.
I sometimes wonder about the real reason why we became the best of friends in the first place if we have conflicting personalities. And the only answer I could think of is proximity. If she lived in Edith Carson or somewhere else far away from Woodward and that if we weren’t KabSis and if we don’t have the same religion, then I think she’d just be another friend in college.
As much as people would often say that it’s harder to let go of best friends more than boyfriends, I think this will be, I should say as I set free all our pinky swears and the rest of our sisterhood memories, for the best.
Bye, friend. But I hope that despite this, you’d still be one of my bride’s maids when I get married someday and I hope that I still am, too, when you do.
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