Nevergirl’s

(A premise)

So she’s leaving you?

Write to her. Put your pen to paper, your fingers to keys, and write from the heart.

Write honestly, write precisely.

Tell her what we both know to be true: that you love her, that you’re sorry, that all the girls that came before and all the girls that came after do not matter.

Write to her in the morning, and just before you go to sleep. Tell her what you see, what you’re doing, how you’re doing, where you’re sleeping, how you wake. Tell her what it is you hope for, what it is you long for, why you’re scared. And if you run out of things to say, tell her what you ate. It does not matter what you say, just write to the girl you love and hurt love and hurt love and hurt and maybe sometimes even hate. Tell her about the songs you write, the songs in your head, the songs you covet. Tell her about the food, the pavement, the wall, the cold. Tell her the truth: that you do not understand why you do what you do but you do it anyway, and you are always, always sorry after.

And if she does not write you back, dear boy, keep writing anyway. Write her a second letter, a third, a fourth, a fifth, maybe even a sixth. It does not matter how many, how long, how often, how quickly, how much. Don’t stop, don’t tire, don’t falter. Tell her everything that’s in your heart, and everything that’s not. Write to her. Make it simple.  Start with “Dear     ,” end with “Love,“. That is it. That is all.

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Look, Siroymylab! I jazzed this up a bit by adding a photo! Haha!

FACT: we look like the biggest retards this side of the hemisphere in this photo. Then again, when have we not look retarded? This was taken back when we lived in Cebu, in 2008. This was in David’s Salon Banilad, where I marched in for a haircut and promptly got refused.

“There is nothing for me to cut!” the stylist huffed.

She was a good girl, that stylist. Unlike most, she actually cared how my haircuts turn out. She told me to try growing my hair. I told her I couldn’t because I get bored really quickly; and my face bores me the quickest of all.

I spent the last few minutes dawdling over this photo, and then chuckling because it reminds me of many things about us that still hold true today, for instance:

1. Wett hates being photographed, which explains the iffy faces.

2. I don’t hate being photographed, but I look just as weird in photos anyway. It’s nearly impossible for me to keep still. If my arms or legs do not move, trust my face to do the moving. As a matter of fact, I’ve lost count of the number of group photos I ruined just because I can’t not move (so I end up blurry-faced, or funny-faced, or two-headed, or three-legged depending on the camera). Clearly, I need awkwardness like a man dying of lung cancer needs a whiff of the finest cigars.

Meream is convinced I have ADHD. On top of being fidgety, I have the shortest attention span in the world.

3. Wett likes wearing only one color: white. (Technically, that’s not a color but let’s leave the hairsplitting for another time.) I’m convinced this love for white is genetic. His dad wears white 365 days of the year. So do his younger brothers whose home wear consist of the staple white shirt PLUS white jammies and shorts!

4. The Kongs’ devotion to white is why I no longer wear white (because holy macaroni, we can’t all go out looking like walking commercials for Tide!).

5. I have the most boring closet in the world. Its stash can easily be divided into two groups: a handful of reds, purples, whites, and browns, AND THEN BLACK—truckloads of black.

Once upon a time, I wore nothing but black. My color repertoire has since then expanded—but only by the slightest bit. I still wear  a lot of black. That white dress I’m wearing in the photo? I have the same dress in black, thanks to Rose. Look!

Before we moved here, I wore outfits like this almost every day. Now, I go around in sackcloths and slippers hahaha!

I don’t know why I like black so much. It’s an addiction, a sickness. I wear black at home, to work, to the mall, to weddings, exhibits, parties, birthdays. I think the only occasion I haven’t worn black for is a bar mitzvah, but that’s only because I don’t know anyone Jewish. Proof?

(WARNING: A smorgasbord of photos lie ahead!)

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Do you talk to yourself? Cry over soldiers dying in the movies but never over fights? Chew on your hair? Pace about a room enough to burn holes on the carpet? Are you scared of elevators? Do you always have a line from a Shakespearean play playing on loop in your head? Are you so anal about spelling you literally itch whenever you see a common noun capitalized? Cubic Zirconia, for example? Do you count everything when you’re nervous—the marble slabs in the garden, the stairs at work, the ruffles in the curtains, the bathroom tiles? Are you incapable of recognizing most of the local artistas because you watch TV once a blue moon? Do you stay awake at night, convinced you just heard the flapping of manananggal wings, the rustling of a white lady’s skirt as it hits the floor? Are your dreams about zombie invasions and viruses mutating into ugly life forms with chainsaw-sharp teeth? Do you hoard pencils and notebooks? Do you talk to your things? Are you secretly scared of the people you meet in the physical world because they seem so grown-up?

Welcome to my world.

My 20-year-old sister will be graduating this March. I am proud of her. She is intelligent, hardworking, and kind. She’s pretty, too, but we both know that’s nothing to be proud of. Looks are either a happy or an unhappy genetic accident; no credit is due to her.

We very rarely talk about relationships but we did one time, and I’m happy she shares my views. When it comes to the boy who claims to love you, drown out what he says and focus on what he does. You won’t ever go wrong with that (and some day, when you’re 40 and overweight, you won’t find yourself googling “which diet pills work” because he’d love you anyway, flabs and all). And well, I’m glad she gets it. I’m glad she gets that she should only give her heart to the boy who will take the best care of it. After all, the point of being a couple is that it’s with each other where and when you feel the safest. You should be each other’s greatest fans, nurturers, dream enablers, and if the need ever arises, each other’s fiercest protectors.

But how do you find this boy who will care for your heart as if it were his? This can be tricky. There are too many boys, too little time. (more…)