#30DayWritingChallenge: The stupidest thing I ever did.

Day Twenty: The stupidest thing I ever did.

What is with these superlatives?

Can one always categorize all the experiences one went through with one’s life and separate the smart from the stupid. Following that, one must then rank, with considerable amount of objective accuracy, which one is the least stupid, which one is the next, and so on.

But this is day twenty and I’m two-thirds done with this challenge. Great time for me to even start complaining about the daily topics. Admittedly, these little asides are just ways for me to introduce what I will be writing about, as well as maybe pad my posts a little.

So. Stupidity.

A noon confession written fifteen or so minutes ago.

The man I probably loved the most, whom I spent three years of my life with, will soon be celebrating six years with the man he replaced me with.

That is a sad, sobering thought to wake up to.

Like so many people I’ve lost from my life throughout the years, I still miss him.

Waiting in vain.

Hello, you.

I write this while I can hear you downstairs, talking and laughing with our other friend. It’s been two hours since I arrived here, and I’m killing time until the Ortigas Extension traffic eases and I can haul my remaining stuff here back to my parent’s place.

I wasn’t really planning to tell you I’ll be going today; I only told our friend that I’d be dropping by. I don’t know if he told you or if it was a coincidence but I received this from you last Tuesday:

Hey, was just wondering when you’d be free.
I was hoping I could talk to you.
In person. That is if you’re no longer mad at me. Thanks.

I told you I’m no longer mad at you. And that it’ll be nice to talk to you again.

I was looking forward to talk to you again.

Except that when I finally saw you, after several weeks of not seeing each other, it felt awkward. And I admit that I could still feel some resentment. I thought that writing the things I never got to tell you in a blog post was enough for me to let go of the anger. For a few days, at least, it seemed to have worked.

Except, well, maybe it didn’t.

There was a point earlier while I was here in this same spot, transferring the files I have in this desktop, when you came in and, for a few moments, we were left alone. And I was expecting that you will ask me if it was okay to talk. That we will finally have the talk.

But you didn’t, so we never did.

I was increasingly apprehensive since that day I read your message. I often found it difficult to concentrate on what I do. I found myself running imaginary conversations in my head, how our talk might turn out. Will we be raising voices? Will we end up laughing? Will we finally get some closure?

But it looks like that talk will not happen.

It’s 8:45 in the morning as I type this. And I will schedule this to be published by noon. That should give me enough time to cancel the publication if ever we get to have our talk. Or maybe I will just keep this post private, a snapshot of conflicted feelings that I will forget and maybe stumble upon years from now.

I will be quite disappointed if this post gets published. But I won’t be very surprised. It’s sad, though, how we seemed to have had a few happy years together, only to end up with us disappointing each other towards the end.

This will be the last thing I will write of you. Or maybe the last thing that I will admit to be about you.

You looked quite happy. I wish you luck. Goodbye.

It’s still too early for NiƱos Inocentes.

01. It’s as if the apartment doesn’t want to let us in.

On the day before I was supposed to leave the Chairless Apartment, I was locked out.

We had the housecooling (the opposite of of housewarming, get it?) of the Chairless Apartment on Christmas. I figured, with the holidays and all, everybody should be sick of eating pasta and decided to cook a dish that will go with rice. On my way back to Mandaluyong, I passed by the wet market and got ingredients for seafood kare-kare.

Before I reached the apartment, I realized that I don’t have my keys with me. I sent a message to Bern and he said he only just left Imus. Damn. That’ll be two hours of travel from Cavite to Mandaluyong. My other options are to head back to Makati and get my keys, have the door forced open (and pay the replacement of the locks), or wait until Bern arrives.

Going back to Makati will cost me around P300 and will take about an hour. Having the front door busted will cost me aroun P700 and will take 15 to 30 minutes. I opted to wait and hoped the shellfish I bought would not have gone bad by then.

I think I fell asleep leaning against the stairs of the fire exit. Next thing I know, it’s already past 4pm and Bern was ONLY able to get a bus from Cavite. Traffic from Imus was bad, but it’s also close to rush hour in Makati; getting my keys from my parents’ place is no longer a good option. By 6, my phone’s battery gave out. I asked building maintenace to force open the front door of my unit.

Our friends Barny and Mia already arrived when the maintenance people came to open our door. After the dead-bolt was opened, Bern arrived, running across the hallway. He overheard maintenance people by the gate discussing out unit and ran quickly, hoping he could still reach us in time. Poor hunny, he didn’t.

I found my keys in our bedroom the following morning. So going back to Makati would not have accomplished anything after all. I was truly locked out.

02. That was not a funny.

Bern had to leave the party early because of work. On Christmas day.

He was told to report that night as part of a skeleton crew who will handle email inquries. When he arrived at the office, the lights were off and no one was there. Turned out it was an office-wide prank made to newbies.

After commuting from Cavite to Mandaluyong for 4 hours, that kind of joke is just cruel.

03. It’s as if the apartment refuses to let us go.

Yesterday, Markee asked to have the lease extended for a day because he can’t get his stuff on the 26th. Eventually, I agreed and decided that I won’t be able to finish packing all my stuff anyway.

Bern and I was asleep when Markee took his things. He was gone when we woke up. In the end, my stuff are all that’s left in the apartment.

Bern and I went down to throw some stuff out and maybe grab something to eat. When we reached the store, I realized my wallet was missing. I remember taking it from my pants just before we stepped out of our unit. I didn’t pay any attention to it until we reached the store.

We walked back to the apartment, retracing the steps we took going out, hoping that I only misplaced my wallet but knowing that it’s mostly likely gone, the way my luck is going lately.

And I was right. I was the Universe’s butt monkey, hurray.

Aside from my last remaining cash (which I would’ve used to pay the movers for my stuff), I also lost my ATM cards. My salary will be credited of Friday night but I won’t be able to withdraw them immediately because of the bank holidays. Isn’t it a great time to lose one’s ATM.

At that point, there wasn’t any rage left for me to spite my luck. Bern hugged me and I just whimpered.

2012 sure ended in a way Bern and I couldn’t have foreseen. That was funny.

Madonna, Buffy, sea serpents, and suicidal underwear.

Two odd dreams from last weekend.

Dream #1

Madonna was riding a serpent-like sea monster following Buffy Summers who kidnapped Madonna’s son. Buffy turned around to show a blonde sea siren who suddenly attacked the sea monster.

Dream #2

Former co-worker Popin invited me to drink some cocktails she made on the pretext that she was studying to be a bartender. One of the better drinks included omelette as an ingredient. The drink was not called an “omelette”; it had an omelette. All the drinks were good, though.

It turned out to be a reality TV show where people are supposed to get drunk, do ridiculous drunken antics, and pass out in front of the camera. Two of the invited girlfriends started pole dancing in the bar. No, I didn’t get drunk enough to do anything stupid.

But this was not a dream:

I was getting the dried laundry from the clothes line when one of my briefs slipped from my hand and fell on the cement stub outside the balcony of the laundry area. I tried to fish it out, but I caused it to fall further down, on the outcropping roof placed outside the units at the building’s ground floor.

Bern and I had to take the step ladder (which normally functions as a book shelf) to fetch it. It was one of my newer underwear, bought just the week before, so I was pretty keen on getting it back. Good thing this happened at the back of the building, away from where most of the tenants pass on their way out.

We used to have suicidal plants and cooking pots. Now, even our underwear are jumping off our building.